


Burn It Down

by SomeRainMustFall



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Also also Charon has been trapped in a cycle of slavery and abuse for over 200 years, Also by Slow Burn I mean like...really...really slow., And those Angst and PTSD tags are 10/10 there for a reason, Angst, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, It has arrived. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Torture, Touch-Starved, like 20 chapters slow, lol u know what else has arrived? MORE PAIN.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 193,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8784982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/pseuds/SomeRainMustFall
Summary: "It figures," Charon says, blankly, and the Wanderer turns to him, a puzzled look on his face. "What?""You are the only decent person I have served, and now you are actively trying to get yourself killed."The Wanderer loads his shotgun and grins. He's no longer the frightened child that approached Charon at the Ninth Circle all that time ago; now, he's angry, vengeful, determined—far too confident for his own good. "Trust me. I'm not gonna die," he says. "I'm gonna burn the Enclave to the ground."[Update schedule is as unstable as me]





	1. As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Most chapters now revised for a smoother pace! :3 
> 
> Warnings will be put at the beginning of chapters that need it, ALWAYS, though 99% of any darker subject matter that needs warnings happened in the past. 
> 
> Feedback is loved and appreciated! I hope this proves enjoyable to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of General Warning: Ahzrukhal is really...creepy. Like, he's just...off. Which is exactly the vibe everyone gets every time they see his smelly green face, anyways, so it fits.

* * *

"The sky's lookin' pretty tonight, huh?"

 

Charon doesn't stop what he's doing, shoving scavenged weaponry and ammo into the bag he's hidden by the history museum's entrance, but he acknowledges Willow with a glance once he stands, hauling the pack over his shoulder. There's nothing pretty about sunsets—or anything, for that matter—in the Wasteland, but Charon hears it every time he's around her. He half thinks she's only saying it to get a reaction out of him, since she always waits for a response she will never receive, but sometimes he catches her just staring up at the sky, smoke from a cigarette between her fingers trailing off in the still air, and feels something vaguely akin to jealousy at how serene she looks.

 

She smiles at him, tilting her head, and never seems deterred by his silence. It's been years since he's talked to her—decades, maybe; he's lost track by now—but she acts as if it doesn't matter, like the brief, one-sided conversations she has with him are enough. He sometimes thinks about speaking to her, but that is against his standing order to never say a word to anyone, and he cannot disobey it. He doesn't like talking, anyway; it's unnecessary, and distracting, and...well, he isn't allowed to, so in the end, it doesn't matter what he thinks.

 

"Goodnight," Willow says, as he starts back off to Underworld. She whistles a tune as she again takes up her walk around the front of the building, and her lighter clicking is what he hears last as the door shuts behind him.

 

"Took you long enough," is how Ahzrukhal greets him when he returns to the Ninth Circle, lips curled in a displeased snarl.

 

Charon places the bag down on the floor before the man and then steps back. "I am sorry. It is hard to find anywhere I have not already looked."

 

"I didn't ask for fuckin' excuses," Ahzrukhal snaps, grabbing the bag and shoving it into a cabinet below the bar counter. "I told you to look further out. I don't care how far. And when I say be back before sunset, I don't mean during, I mean before."

 

"I am sorry," Charon says again, monotone, and Ahzrukhal huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, but doesn't say anything else about it, his gaze now off to the side.

 

Charon decides after a moment that the silence means he's dismissed, and he goes to return to his corner, stopping when Ahzrukhal calls his name and points towards the other room. "Get him out, first."

 

Charon doesn't catch who his employer is pointing at, but it isn't hard to figure it out once he's moved to the entrance, immediately focused on the resident he's had to get out twice in the last month, drunkenly stumbling about.

 

"I caught him behind the counter," Ahzrukhal says, narrowing his eyes. "Again. Truly, I am not in the mood tonight. Don't kill him...but be sure he understands."

 

"As you command," Charon says, making his way over to the ghoul and wrapping a hand tightly around his arm.

 

"Charon," Patchwork says, words as slurred together as always, and he grins nervously. "I didn't even...didn't hear you come in...I jus'...wanted a drink, but...but I'm leavin', okay? _Ow_ —"

 

Charon drags Patchwork out of the bar, to the top of the stairs, and shoves him down, watching as the ghoul cries out and then lands in a motionless, crumpled heap at the bottom, groaning in pain. He doesn't stay to see if the other is alright, or if anyone even helps him, and instead returns inside and to his corner, arms crossed.

 

"Good boy," Ahzrukhal murmurs without looking up. Something inside Charon cringes in disgust, as it does nearly every time Ahzrukhal speaks, but he, as always, doesn't react.

 

When everyone has left and the doors are locked for the night, Ahzrukhal grabs Charon's wrist and drags him behind the counter, shoving him to the floor. Ahzrukhal is high, or drunk, or both, and Charon is already fairly sure he'll have to remind the man about the contract's terms before the night is over.

 

"Get the guns. You're going tonight."

 

Charon hesitates, and then slowly shakes his head. "I do not think I found enough."

 

"What? You don't think? What does that mean?"

 

Charon stays on his knees and anxiously flexes his fingers, then curls his hands into fists. He's been having more and more trouble finding weapons on the runs he gets sent on, but Ahzrukhal is right—always right, according to the contract—and he should be going further, as far as he needs to. He had expected to have more time, though; he had just traded the rest of them off two days ago. Ahzrukhal never sends him off again so soon. He needs at least fifteen, and...

 

"I have only gathered twelve. I did just go—"

 

"Excuse me? And who are you to tell me when I should send you out?"

 

Charon pauses, takes a second, and tries to fix his mistake. "That is not what I meant. I would never. I will find more. Right now, if you wish."

 

Ahzrukhal is very quiet for a moment, and Charon can only wait for whatever comes next. He's been around Ahzrukhal long enough to detect differences, even unspoken ones, and he can tell his employer is furious.

 

"You're damn right," Ahzrukhal says at length, making a sharp gesture with his hand. "Put them back."

 

Charon does so, closing the cabinet as quietly as he can, and starts to get back to his feet.

 

Ahzrukhal sticks a foot out and trips him, sending him back to the floor with a grunt.

 

"Oops," Ahzrukhal mutters, and Charon bares his teeth; Ahzrukhal exists _specifically_ to push the limitations of his contract as far as he possibly can. "While you're down there, though, you might as well do something productive. How about some push-ups, hm? It didn't sound very much like you were sorry, earlier...I think one hundred will fix that. Now, Charon."

 

Charon sighs and brings himself up into position. _Stupid bastard of a man._ It's a punishment he's familiar with, at least—one that they were all often given where he was...trained. _Programmed_ _._ It's one of the few things he still remembers from that time, and probably only because he's been forced to do them by so many employers. It's military, to the point; doing so many will eventually both exhaust and hurt him without his employers needing to do anything themselves, which is only because they _can't._ The contract forbids purposeful physical violence that could hurt Charon enough he could not continue with his duties, or that would leave a lasting mark.

 

It's a lot harder to leave a mark on him now than it was when he was human. 

 

Ahzrukhal flicks him sometimes, just enough to sting and get his full attention, but never anything more. It's too obvious every time the bastard loses his temper and raises his hand towards Charon that he means to strike, _hard,_ but he's well aware that the second he does, Charon will no longer be around to do his dirty work. And a man like Ahzrukhal would never do that sort of work himself, so he simply finds ways _around_ the rule.

 

It disappoints Charon, really; if Ahzrukhal loses his thread of self-control just once, hits him hard enough, then Charon can put an end to him, and never have to hear his disgusting voice again, but then...it's been so long. Surely it would have happened already. If an employer was going to slip up, they usually did so within weeks, sometimes even days. He's been stuck here for _decades._

 

"Count them out loud," Ahzrukhal says, stepping lightly on Charon's fingers. "Start over. You weren't counting."

 

Charon sets his jaw and starts to count, too aware that Ahzrukhal is smirking above him.

 

"Good. Now...what did you do wrong, Charon?" 

 

 _Everything, of course. As usual._ "Five...I was, ah...six...seven...disobedient."

 

"Were you now?" Ahzrukhal asks, wandering his way over to the bar to pour himself a (fourth? Fifth, by now?) glass of whiskey. It's rare for him to drink anything else, and Charon is sickened by the very smell, now, after so many times of Ahzrukhal drunkenly leaning up much too close to him to purr horrible orders, or worse, call him good boy, or good dog, or pet his hair, or stroke his finger against the sensitive patch of skin just under Charon's chin because he likes how it makes his always-stoic pet flinch without fail. 

 

"You don't sound too certain about it...that was almost a question. Do you even _know_ what you did wrong? Or do I need to find a way to refresh your memory?" 

 

"No," Charon says quickly; whatever further punishment Ahzrukhal has in mind, he certainly doesn't want it. "Fifteen...sixteen...I ignored your...seventeen...suggestion to look...eighteen...farther out." 

 

"That's correct, Charon. You did ignore me." He comes back over, sitting in the chair closest to Charon, and leans back, taking a long, drawn-out drink. "Is that acceptable?" 

 

"It is not." 

 

"No?" 

 

"No."

 

Ahzrukhal nods amicably, swishing another mouthful around and then swallowing with a hum. "Right again, Charon." His words are past the point of slurring together by now, but that's never when he stops. Some ghouls don't seem to get hangovers as badly as others, and some don't get them at all; Ahzrukhal never seems to take any damage, and he absolutely takes advantage of what he surely sees as a blessing. 

 

"Now tell me. Is there any particular  _reason_ you decided bringing me twelve was alright? Have I ever given you the impression I'd settle for  _almost_ the right amount?" 

 

"Thirty-six...thirty-seven...no." He's not out of breath just yet, doesn't usually really start to struggle until sometime after sixty, but a sheen coat of sweat already covers him, drips off from his face and onto the floor. 

 

"I haven't? Good, I didn't think so. You had me worried for a minute there, that somehow you thought it was  _okay_ to ignore me."

 

"Never." 

 

"Very good." He sighs, comfortably, and lets Charon continue in silence, watching him. Charon doesn't _like_ how Ahzrukhal watches him, how Ahzrukhal  _looks_ at him, when so heavily intoxicated, with an unnerving glint in his eyes that he doesn't have at any other time, that Charon really, _really_ doesn't like to think about.

 

He hits seventy, starts to slow down and pant even harder with his mouth hanging open, and Ahzrukhal leans forward in his chair, takes a handful of what's left of bright red hair atop Charon's head and pulls on it. "Are you in pain?"  

 

Charon can't really nod, especially with the grip on his hair, but he grunts in as much agreement as he has the strength to verbalize. "S-seventy-five...ah...yes...seventy...six..." 

 

"That's what I like to hear. Little faster, now, we don't have all night." 

 

Charon jerks his head, tries to tug himself free, but Ahzrukhal's grip only gets tighter, fingers scratching at his scalp. He growls angrily, yet obeys, and then finally, finally grunts out, "One hundred," and slumps, curling his arms to his chest and stifling a groan of pain.

 

Ahzrukhal doesn't give him even a second to recover before he's pulling on his hair again, forcing him to get to his knees and dragging him closer. "Well?" he asks, delighted as Charon momentarily betrays his discomfort at the sudden proximity by tossing his head to the side and yanking back with a grunt, his hands flung up like he's preparing to block some sort of attack. 

 

Ahzrukhal  _loves_ when he looks like this; when he's exhausted and spent from punishment or lack of sleep, when he can't control his reactions as well as he usually can. He always looks so wonderfully similar to a trapped animal, sometimes even acts it, especially when he's like this, down on his knees at the feet of the one man he hates more than anyone, the one man he can't do a damn thing to. When he gets that deliciously wary look in his eyes, Ahzrukhal wants to do something to claim him further, wants to wrap a collar around his neck, but really, there's no need for a physical show of ownership. Everyone, _especially_ Charon, knows exactly who he belongs to.

 

"I'm waiting for my apology, Charon," he says, pulling harder. "Do sound more sincere this time, or you'll do a hundred more. Stop—what are you doing? Why are you trying to get away from me? What do you think I'm going to do?" 

 

Charon stills himself, his teeth bared, and then submits, placing his hands on the floor at Ahzrukhal's feet and, as genuinely as he can, murmuring, "I am sorry. I am _sorry._ "

 

"That's better. Was that so hard? Hm? Good boy." He smirks, holds onto Charon a few seconds longer while he decides whether or not he's really done with him, and then shoves him back onto the floor; he definitely doesn't miss the look of relief that flickers across Charon's face. "Get up. Get going. Do not come back until you have enough. You'll be going tomorrow, then."

 

"As you wish," Charon says, grimacing as he gets to his feet, rubbing uselessly at his arms to try and ease the pain as he leaves.

 

Willow never looks surprised to see him in any shape, and never comments. She hands him a cigarette and lights it for him, giving a gentle pat to his shoulder. "Careful," she says as he sets off, although she knows perfectly well that there are few things out in the Wastes that are any worse than what's always waiting for him here when he returns.

 

**x**

 

 _"Three_ _Dog here, and this is GNR! Galaxy News Radio, if you didn't already know. And hey...is this signal comin' in okay? You're damn right it is! Our latest news is, of course, about that kid from Vault 101, who jumped out after his father about two weeks back. Hadn't heard much about him since Megaton and that bomb he disarmed—can't say 'good job' on that enough, kid—but low and behold, who turns up and my studio earlier today, after trailin' along with the Lyons' Pride and helpin' them take out a goddamn super mutant behemoth? Mr. Vault Dweller himself! I hear the applause already. And I know that's not just static, because out of the kindness of his heart, he decided to help get a satellite dish to get this station's sweet soundin' signal_   _back out across the Wasteland. Great job, 101. You're really helpin' fight the Good Fight. Until next time, kids, this is Three Dog; bringing you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	2. The Warmest of Welcomes

Willow isn’t so much surprised to see the smoothskin as she is disappointed with how apparently _stupid_ he is, running his way towards the museum from somewhere down the street and trying to _avoid_ the super mutant’s fire. He eventually nearly knocks into Willow, eyes wide, and slumps down to hide behind the concrete surrounding the metro entrance, panting, clutching an assault rifle to his chest.

 

“How’s running away working out for you?” Willow asks, casually, lighting a cigarette, and the smoothskin stares up at her like she just spat at him. 

 

“Who the hell are you? Where’d you come from? Get down!”

 

Willow cocks an eyebrow and doesn’t move, calmly breathing out smoke, and the smoothskin looks horrified, pressing himself further back and wildly looking around. “They’re gonna see you!"

 

“What, the super mutants?” She shrugs. “They don’t bother us ghouls. Might see us as kin or something. Where are you heading to, tourist?”

 

“Metro,” he says, gesturing, and flinches when he hears more rageful shouts from the super mutants down in the trenches and a few stalking their way above, though none have decided to pursue him further. Willow figures they've probably already forgotten what they were doing. 

 

“C-could you cover me?" he asks, sounding even smaller, more frightened than he looks. I’m—please, I ran outta ammo—”

 

Willow gestures towards the museum. “If you’ve got caps, someone in Underworld might be able to help you out with that.”

 

“Underworld?”

 

And more disappointment. “Oh, come on. You telling me you never heard of it? City of ghouls? Inside the museum? For a tourist, you don’t seem to really have traveled much.”

 

“I’m not a tourist,” he protests, and she smirks.

 

“Sightseer. _Wanderer_. All the same thing.”

 

He leans back and finally seems to relax, just a little, or else he’s about to pass out from exhaustion; Willow can’t really tell. His eyes have glazed over, and he looks terribly weak. He's rail-thin, with a backpack that's clearly too heavy for him and blood splatters coating his armor, which is falling apart at the seams. She wonders how he ever made it this far into the city, and has the strangest urge to make sure he doesn't try to go back out there just yet.

 

Eventually, he glances up at her and says, “You said...city of ghouls?”

 

“Yeah. Right through the giant skull. You can’t really miss it. Most of them aren’t too fond of humans, but they'll trade with you, patch you up, so long as your caps are good...and you ain't a ghoul hater." She takes a long, final drag, sizing him up. "Are you?"

 

“Uh...no. No, I have...a friend, who's...no. I'm not."

 

"Good. Then you should be alright."

 

He contemplates this for a long moment, and then at last nods. "Okay...okay. I'll...do that. Thank you, uh—”

 

“Willow. Till next time.” She tosses her cigarette to the ground and whistles as she goes off, pausing as the smoothskin only stares at her until she finally takes out her weapon. “Go. I’ll cover you.”

 

“Thank you,” he says, shakily, and darts his way towards the door to the museum. The second he reaches out to it, however, it flings open and knocks him on his ass. He yelps, scrambling away; he's on edge, _terrified_ , and he grabs for the only useful weapon he has on him right now—a tire iron—just in case.

 

Immediately it's wrenched out of his grip, and a heavy boot shoves flat against his chest, pinning him to the ground, and when he looks up, it's down the barrel of the shotgun pointed directly at his face. "Holy _shit—_ "

 

"Charon!"

 

Blinking hard, shaking, the boy tilts his head back to watch Willow jog up towards them, shaking her head. "He's not trouble. Just here to trade."

 

He looks at the ghoul looming over him, noticing at once how _frighteningly_ tall he is, and watches as he grunts in acknowledgment and then holsters his weapon. He loses interest completely in the boy, stepping over him like he isn't there, and then walks off without saying a thing, leaving the boy panting heavily, too stunned to move.

 

"Only the warmest of welcomes for you, tourist," she says, chuckling as she lights another cigarette, and then she offers to help him up. He lays there for a moment to catch his breath before finally taking her hand and getting back to his feet, much more cautious as he makes his way inside.

 

**x**

 

Charon doesn't think of the smoothskin again. It's not strange to have visitors, and he has far more important things to focus on, like the trade he's been sent to do. He shifts the heavy bag of weaponry to his other shoulder, wincing at the strain on his still-aching arms. It holds fifteen to give to this group, in a metro station a mile and a half or so away. It's sometimes twenty to another, much further, and occasionally another fifteen to a gang of slavers just outside the city. Charon is relieved when he does not have to go there. He does not like to hear them speak of their captives so nonchalantly, or watch them make a sale while he's there. He is completely capable of hiding all emotions, all disgust, and never gives anything away, but he doesn't like how he cannot look away when one of the slaves meets his eyes. There is something between everyone, Charon thinks, who has to live like this, or even once had to. Charon has never said a word to any of the slaves, but they are all kind to him, and they seem to have a mutual understanding of each other.

 

He doesn't like to think of himself as a slave, but that's what he knows he is. He obeys commands; he does what is wanted of him, no matter what it is. He is a soldier if nothing else, and he is meant to fight, to protect, but that doesn't mean he has any more free will than the people he sees in collars and cages. All that's  _missing_ is a collar; his contract could probably be considered one. He is bound to it, by honor and by force, but he hates it. He wants to see it burn, but then...then he would be nothing. It is everything he's ever been, everything he doesn't want to be. He was not trained to think, or want, or refuse, no matter the cost to others...or to himself. And it has cost him so,  _so_ much. More than he ever cares to remember.

 

The slaves may see him for what he is, but they do not know what he has done. He is not their ally. He is never allowed to be, not with the scum his contract always ends up in the hands of.

 

Especially men like Ahzrukhal, who go out of their way to torment him in any way they can. He's of course no stranger to being made to do things he doesn't want to, or things that do not follow his own moral code (as if he should even pretend he has the luxury of having such a thing), but he's had few employers so delighted to do it, to find new ways to cause him pain without laying a finger on him, to force him to carry out orders that only add to the list of things he despises himself for.

 

After two centuries, it's gotten to be a _very_ long list.

 

Half a mile to go, and he comes across the body of a slave. It's a gruesome scene, but Charon doesn't look away. He can't. He hardly feels anything, anymore, but occasionally there's a pang of some emotion he's long since forgotten he has, or ever did have, the ability to experience. Her face is sunburned and slack, her unseeing eyes raised to the sky. She's bruised, beaten, and...and too young. Far too young. His stomach twists and he almost wants to be sick, but he pushes it back, forces himself back into his routine impassive state.

 

He's seen worse. He's done worse. It's nothing.

 

_Keep going._

 

He's about to continue on when his eyes catch a crinkled piece of paper still clutched in her hand. He crouches, gently taking it, and flattens it out. Its words are faded, hardly legible anymore, but he can make out the first bit, a name and map marker of something he's never heard of before: the Temple of the Union. After that, it's too damaged, and the only words he can see are 'slaves', and after that, 'free'.

 

_Free._

 

She had been going to some sort of safe house, and she had never made it. He swallows hard, looking down at her again, and then feels the desperate desire to do something for her—bury her, maybe, but he just doesn't have the time. Instead, he pulls her over beside a rock, surely shaded even when the sun comes up, and positions her much more comfortably before leaving.

 

He means to toss the note down, to leave it discarded and forgotten, but instead he places it safely into his pocket.

 

**x**

 

_"Three Dog here again with the news, kiddies, and boy do I have some for you, though it’s less news and more of a friendly warning. Careful when traveling any of the metro stations—there's ferals, raiders, all sorts of bad in those tunnels. I've even heard reports of some super mutant sightings down there. So make sure you're stocked up on ammo, or else you might never see the light again after gettin’ down there. That means you. Yes, you. Running will only get you so far, and you can't run forever. Till next time, this has been Three Dog; bringing you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now for some music…”_


	3. Just Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support so far :3
> 
> Warning for brief mention of (past) attempted rape/non-con.

Besides Winthrop and Cerberus, the Wanderer finds not many in Underworld, at least on the first floor, will hold up a conversation with him. A few comment as he passes, a few _threaten,_ but he keeps a kind smile on his face despite it. Not supposed to show fear...or something like that, he remembers reading once. But that’s _difficult_ when fear is all he ever feels. He hasn’t felt safe since the night before he had to leave the Vault—it wasn't all that long ago, but might as well be an eternity—and while Megaton had been about as protected as it can get out here, he’s a long way from there, now. He just wants his _dad_. He wants them to be able to go back to the Vault, and pretend none of this ever happened, together. But that just isn't possible. He can never go back. He needs to focus on what he _can_ do right now: find the man. Or...what he _hopes_ he can do. It’s already taking too long; if he’s dead by the time the Wanderer finds him, it’s going to be all his fault...and he can’t have that kind of guilt weighing on him...he’s already falling apart.

 

He hears a whistle to get his attention from an open door he passes, and he stops, then turns to go inside. The ghoul behind the counter smiles at him and waves. “I can’t believe that worked...it’s been so long since I’ve had a customer...oh...well, we don’t get your kind very often! I’m Tulip. I couldn’t help but notice your armor’s looking...a little raggedy.”

 

Suddenly self-conscious, of all things, the Wanderer shifts and puts an arm around himself. “...And?”

 

“Well...if you’ve got the caps, I’ve got an upgraded set for you. Not too much. Let’s say...eighty?”

 

“Yeah? That’s it?” He tugs at his armor, making a face, and the nods as he drops his bag to rummage through it for caps, eventually sliding them over to her and grinning as she hands him the neatly folded recon armor from the shelf behind her. “Thank you!”

 

“Thank _you_ ,” she says, scooping the caps into a drawer. “That should make it a little less hard to kill you.”

 

“That’s the goal,” the Wanderer murmurs, running a hand along the armor, and then looks up at her. "Do you have any ammo?"

 

"Talk to Quinn. He's always going out to trade, so he might have some. But...he also might need it. You of all people would understand. It's horrible out there."

 

"Yeah...wait, none of the rest of you have guns?"

 

"Not me. Maybe a few of us, but...it's not as dangerous as you'd think, as long as we stay inside. I mean, we’ve had our share of raiders and slavers wander in...but we’ve got Charon and Cerberus to take care of them when they do."

 

The name immediately catches his attention. “Charon? What’s he, like, a guard or something? He almost killed me.”

 

Her expression turns sour for a second. “Something like that. He goes out sometimes, but mostly he guards the bar upstairs."

 

Charon is a _bouncer?_ "I bet no one pisses him off."

 

"Well, it's not really him, it's Ahzrukhal. He owns, ah...the bar. Charon does whatever he says. I don't even know if he _feels_ emotions."

 

Something in the Wanderer suddenly becomes cold. That hesitation after 'he owns' clicks in his mind, and, thinking suddenly of Gob back in Megaton, the first ghoul he'd come across and his first friend, he wonders if all ghoul slaves work in bars. "So...he's a slave, then."

 

"It's not something you want to get involved with," she says after a moment of silence, shaking her head and starting to fiddle with things on the counter. "Charon is dangerous _,_ okay? Ahzrukhal keeps him, you know, in check. And he's...kind to him, as I hear it. Honestly, I don't hear much about it. I don't go up there. I don't like it. I don't like the kind of company there. But who am I to bother you with how I feel? He's got great drinks if you've got the money.”

 

“I'll check it out,” he says, a little sadly. As terrifying as Charon had been, no one deserves to live being bossed around, and to not be allowed to leave. He had felt trapped in the Vault, sometimes, but he hadn't even known what else existed. He can't imagine what it must feel like to have freedom ripped away; he hates to even think about it. He wants to free every slave he's come across, because it's just not _fair,_ but he just doesn't have the money, and certainly not the strength or the skill to do it by force. He can barely take care of himself. Maybe one day, though. He at _least_ needs to free poor Gob, who had been nothing but kind to him from the moment he came into the saloon, who shouldn't have to deal with being slapped around by customers while that bastard Moriarty doesn't even have the decency to look away. He thinks for a moment, and then adds, “Is there anyone here named Carol?”

 

“There is! She’s the absolute sweetest! She’s got a sort of hotel opposite the bar with Greta.”

 

Oh, maybe he can make Gob smile when he goes home! The Wanderer thanks her again and then gestures towards the door. “I gotta go. It was nice talking to you.”

 

“So polite,” Tulip hums, giving him a small wave. “Come back soon! _Please_.”

 

He nods, and then heads off to the bathroom across the hall to change, already feeling better when he emerges in the new armor, shoving the other pair into his bag. Caps are caps, and he’s sure it’ll get him at least a few whenever he next finds someone to trade with, though his bag is already getting to be a little too heavy. With all the junk he's collected to trade, he feels he should have a lot more money than he does—of course, he's been spending most of it all on stimpaks. He's somehow clumsier out here than he ever was in the Vault; he doesn't know how he's still alive, quite honestly, after everything. He shakes his head, heading up to Carol’s to bring her the good news of her son being alive.

 

“He is?” she asks, overjoyed. “Where is he? Is he with you?”

 

And...the bad news. “No,” the Wanderer murmurs, glancing away. “He’s working at a bar in Megaton. He’s, um...I think he’s a slave.” It sounds slightly better worded like that, more uncertain, leaving room for hope, but he doesn’t _think_ it. He _knows_. Gob had said he was stuck until he paid off his debt, but the woman who... _worked_ there, Nova, had mentioned how Moriarty had purchased him off a group of slavers fifteen years ago. And the way Gob cowered anytime Moriarty came near him, or flinched when people got too close or moved too quickly, and the very tone of his voice as he admitted even eye-contact caused the people of the town to abuse him...it’s far worse than he’ll ever tell Carol, at least until he can do something about it. And he _does_ plan to do something—he just...doesn't know _how_ yet.

 

“Oh, God…” she says, laying a hand against her chest, and he regrets his decision to tell the truth. “That’s terrible…please, will you tell him I love him? And miss him? But oh, he shouldn’t try to escape...no, no...that’s too dangerous. He can’t put himself in danger. He has to stay safe. Tell him to stay safe for me, okay?”

 

“I will. I promise. As soon as I get back," the Wanderer says, nodding, and she sighs, looking at the floor.

 

“Oh, my poor Gob,” she mumbles, shaking her head, and then takes a deep breath and raises her head again. “How about you, though? Need a bed? Some food? A drink?”

 

He thinks about it for a minute, and then glances at his Pip-Boy. It is getting late...and he should probably take the offer of somewhere comfortable and _safe_ to sleep while he can. He’s been resting only when he absolutely needs to, in burnt out buildings, in the metro stations, and only after he’s searched the area a hundred times over, put up frag mines at every entrance there is, and stayed up to watch until his exhausted body pulls him into sleep for a few hours. Sleeping uninterrupted and maybe _not_ having a panic attack upon waking sounds... _refreshing._ “Yeah. A bed for tonight, please. Thanks.”

 

“Thank you,” she says, taking the caps he hands over, and smiles, but it’s not hard to see through it to the sadness she’s trying to hide.

 

He heads to the Ninth Circle next, and is greeted almost immediately by the man behind the counter, who gives him a slightly unsettling grin. His breath comes in awful sounding wheezes between every few words; even for a ghoul, he sounds more like he’s dying than any of the others. There’s nothing particularly unfriendly about him, though; in fact, despite how awkward he usually gets in interactions, the Wanderer finds himself in easy conversation with the man until closing, and is eventually too drunk to notice the pattern of being offered another shot every time he gives a sigh and starts rambling on about his more personal thoughts.

 

“You've turned out to be quite a good customer,” Ahzrukhal says as the Wanderer is standing to leave, more than a little unsteady. “Come back anytime. I'm always here for you to spill your troubles...and your caps...to."

 

The Wanderer slurs out a nearly unintelligible response and nods tiredly, then stumbles his way back to Carol’s Place.

 

“Enjoying your stay?” Carol asks him, almost sounding amused, and he grins, slumping down on his bed with a satisfied sigh, asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

 

**x**

 

It’s well into the night when the door to the bar opens again, and Charon slinks his way inside. It’s fairly dark, with most of the lights off, and Charon, foolishly, almost hopes Ahzrukhal is asleep by now.

 

Of course, the man is _not;_ instead he is sitting on his bed with tightly crossed arms, glaring. “Well?”

 

Charon shifts a little and comes closer. As he does, Ahzrukhal can clearly see he’s hunched over slightly, no doubt in pain. His armor, looking even more worn-out and tattered than before, is stained with fresh blood, and one of his arms is hanging limp and useless at his side. A deep gash is sliced across his left brow, and several lines of dried blood trail down from both it and a nasty split at the corner of his lip.

 

“Jesus, what happened to you?” Ahzrukhal demands, scowling, as if he really gives a damn. “More importantly, _why_ did it take so long?”

 

Charon hesitates before setting a bloody bag of caps onto the counter, grabbing onto the corner for support as he reaches into his pockets and pulls out several Jet inhalers and one capped syringe of Psycho.

 

“...Where’s the rest of it?” Ahzrukhal asks, standing up and looking Charon over. “What did you do? You did something. Answer me!”

 

“I upset them.” Charon murmurs at last, pursing his lips. “I dropped two guns on the way there." If he had only kept going...and not set his bag down to move the dead slave...it was his fault. "They would not pay for just thirteen.”

 

“Of fucking course they wouldn’t, that’s not the deal,” Ahzrukhal snarls, grabbing Charon’s arm and pressing his thumb into a newly-received bullet wound there.

 

Despite himself, Charon flinches and lets out a soft sound of pain, and Ahzrukhal is too angry to even rejoice in having garnered such a reaction. 

 

“You’re beat to hell. You’re _shot_. What happened? Tell me!”

 

“I upset them,” Charon says again, much quieter, and looks at his employer. “And then I killed them.”

 

“You fucking—” Ahzrukhal raises his hand, and Charon lifts his chin up, shifting; everything in his stance dares Ahzrukhal to do it.

 

Ahzrukhal growls, furiously, and instead swipes his arm across the bar counter, knocking several empty bottles to the ground. Charon doesn’t move, watching the man, and, breathing hard, Ahzrukhal looks back up at him, eyes bright with rage. “Why the _fuck_ did you kill them?”

 

Charon blinks, slowly, and then swallows hard. “They took my gun. They attacked me.”

 

“Bull-fucking-shit!”

 

“It is the truth. They did not appreciate me wasting their time. Their leader ordered only that I was able to walk out.”

 

“Fine. You deserved it. _God_  do you deserve it. So they weren’t going to kill you. Why’d you fucking kill them?”

 

Charon shakes his head, and Ahzrukhal reaches for his arm again, which Charon pulls back. “Stop. That hurts."

 

“ _Good,_ you stupid, _worthless_ piece of shit. You’re not telling me everything. _Why?”_

 

“Irrelevant,” Charon says, looking away, and Ahzrukhal grabs his chin, yanking him down to match their heights and meet their eyes.

 

" _Tell_ me.”

 

Stubbornly, Charon refuses. “It is _irrelevant_ to your safety, and therefore unnecessary for me to speak of.”

 

Ahzrukhal growls again and shoves Charon back; raises his hand and then lowers it. “Fucking _idiot._ Get on the ground. Two hundred push-ups. _No._ That’s not enough. Maybe you’ll just do them until the fucking sun comes up.”

 

Charon sets his jaw. “I am wounded—”

 

“Do I look like I give a damn? Get down.”

 

Charon sighs and starts to lower himself, only suddenly Ahzrukhal has a hand gripped tight around his arm again, pulling him closer. “Not there.” He gestures down at the floor now covered in broken glass. “There."

 

“That—”

 

“Get _down!_ Now!” Ahzrukhal all but screams the words, and Charon’s body obeys the order without his approval, sending him to his hands and knees. He forces himself not to make a sound even as the glass bites into him.

 

“Start! Don’t stop until I tell you to, you little—you fucking— _goddamn_ it, Charon!”

 

At some level, Charon is thrilled he's made Ahzrukhal so mad. At another, closer to the surface, he realizes just how badly he's fucked up, and how this isn't going to end well for him. However, few things do. Really, _nothing_ does. There's not a damn thing in two hundred years that's gone his way, so he takes the rare satisfaction when he can find it. 

 

He positions himself, but one arm won’t support his weight, and he curls it close to his chest, trying to decide how to best put into words that he _can't do this_. “I cannot—”

 

“You’ve got the other arm. You’re strong enough. _Start._ ”

 

Charon has no choice but to obey, and Ahzrukhal scowls down at him, then kicks the cabinet below the counter so hard he hears the wood crack, feels his toes ache even through his shoes. It's not _nearly_ as satisfying to him as kicking his little shit of an _employee_ would be, or _strangling_ him, and by the way Charon tilts his head just slightly upwards, watching Ahzrukhal out of the corners of his eyes, Charon is well aware of it.

 

“You stupid fuck _._ Did you at least take their caps and chems?”

 

“All that I could find,” Charon grunts, focusing back on the floor, and Ahzrukhal exhales slowly.

 

“Did you loot the rest of their things?”

 

“I did not. I brought the weapons back, however."

 

"Oh, _goody_. Do you want a fucking reward? Should I pour you a drink to celebrate your fantastic fucking achievement?"

 

"I was not thinking clearly.”

 

“No, you weren’t. You weren't.  _God,_ you’re lucky you have that contract to save your sorry ass, or I’d— _ugh."_  He dumps the bag of caps out, continuing to mutter to himself about exactly  _what_ he wants to do; he’s halfway through counting them when he hears Charon let out a stifled groan, and he glances back. Charon is trembling, his arm barely supporting his weight, and then it gives out completely before he can do anything else. He slumps to the ground, grimacing, and Ahzrukhal scoffs—if Charon thinks for one second he can quit before he's even reached fifty...

 

“Did I say you could stop?”

 

“I cannot anymore…”

 

“You can and you _will._ ”

 

Charon squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to prop himself up again, but his arm simply refuses to cooperate, and his lungs are burning, and—

 

“Keep going, Charon,” Ahzrukhal says, turning to fully face him when he doesn't hear movement, and Charon winces.

 

“My arm…”

 

“I said  _keep going._ ”

 

Charon ducks his head as he feels the ache start at the base of his skull—the same one he feels every time he tries to avoid obeying a direct order, or doesn't do it as quickly as he was trained to. It quickly travels up to the rest of his head, and he groans, unable to help it; it always, somehow, manages to be the worst pain he's ever felt, and it never takes more than a minute for it to incapacitate him if he does not comply. “My arm will not hold me! Stop!”

 

“Stop what?” Ahzrukhal asks, innocently, tilting his head. “Whatever are you talking about?”

 

Charon is already overwhelmed, finally using both arms in an attempt to obey, and while the headache relents a bit, the wound in his arm shoots more unbearable, fiery pain through him, and he only manages a few more push-ups before he collapses again, gasping desperately for air. “ _Please.”_

 

Ahzrukhal had gone back to the caps, but the word instantly brings his attention to Charon again. He hasn’t heard Charon  _beg_ in a long while...he'd forgotten how beautiful the sound is. “What did you do wrong, Charon?”

 

“I killed them...I should not have killed them...I am sorry...I am sorry…”

 

“Tell me why, and I’ll let you stop."

 

Charon again closes his eyes, and then tries to keep going.

 

“No." He shoves his foot into Charon's back, pins him down. "Stop. Tell me, or you’ll do a hundred more with just _this_ one,” he says, nudging Charon’s injured arm, and even that small pressure on it has Charon groaning again.

 

“ _I_ _cannot_ …”

 

“I will _not_ ask again.”

 

Exhausted, Charon finally, reluctantly, gives in. “They were high," he starts, wheezing. "They were ordered to let me leave after their attempt to punish me. They did not, and...one of them tried to hurt me.”

 

"And exactly what the fuck does that mean?"

 

Charon swallows hard and shakes his head. "She was going to—”

 

Ahzrukhal _laughs,_  and Charon flinches and goes quiet at the sound.

 

“ _She?_ Wait, wait, hold on. Are you implying what I think you are? _Liar._ You expect me to believe anyone, even high _,_ would want _you?_ ”

 

Charon slowly, slowly looks up at him, and Ahzrukhal narrows his eyes, either trying to read what Charon is thinking, or daring Charon to challenge him. 

 

"I cannot lie to you," he says instead, because there's no need to say anything else. 

 

Ahzrukhal moves on immediately. "And that's it? That's _really_ why you killed them?"

 

"I only killed her, first. And then they shot me. And I shot back."

 

"Idiot. You should have been _flattered,_ and gone along with it. I doubt you'll ever get another chance like that, and I would have been far less upset if you'd just fucked her and left."

 

“It was far more pleasant to simply kill her," Charon says, calmly, without missing a beat, and Ahzrukhal snarls.

 

"I'm so glad you had fun."

 

"It was not for fun. It was self-defense."

 

"Against some handsy, drugged out smoothskin lady? Charon. Please. You're not helpless. You could have pushed her off and walked away."

 

Charon doesn't respond for a moment—doesn't want to give Ahzrukhal the satisfaction of knowing how truly vulnerable he had felt for the minute he’d spent unarmed and dazed and pinned to the floor by the same three smoothskins who'd just cheerfully kicked the shit out of him, listening to them laugh and jeer while she took her knife and casually started to cut away at his armor, his only protection. Finally he says, "I am allowed to defend myself.”

 

“You apparently shouldn’t be.”

 

“I was not ordered otherwise." He realizes too late that it's the wrong thing to say. Ahzrukhal narrows his eyes, and then crouches to grab ahold of Charon's wounded arm again, squeezing.

 

“Fine,” he says as Charon gasps. “Charon. Do not ever kill any of the people you trade with for me again. That is an order. That is an _order,_ Charon. I don’t care what they do to you. I don’t. If they want you, they can _have_ you, as long as _I_ get what I want. I see you fucking thinking, already trying to find some loophole—stop. Stop. No matter _what,_ never fucking kill any of them again. If they try to kill _you,_ you just fucking _run._ Do you understand me?”

 

Charon lets out a long breath, sets his jaw, and then says, “Yes. I understand.”

 

“Good to hear,” Ahzrukhal says, releasing him. “Now get up. Sweep this glass off the floor.”

 

Charon stands, wearily, and Ahzrukhal points over to the corner. “And when you're done, stand there. Don’t sleep. Don’t move. Don’t make a fucking sound.”

 

“As you command,” Charon says, and as he goes to get the broom, he rips a piece of his undershirt off, tying it tight around his arm. The bullet had gone clean through, at least. He'll be just fine.

 

“Good idea,” Ahzrukhal says, laying down and turning his back to Charon. “It would have been rather annoying if you bled out on my clean floor."

 

Charon glares, picturing exactly how many times he wants to send his knife into that back as he passes, and then simply obeys the orders he's been given. It's all he _can_ do. 

 

**x**

 

 _"Three Dog here again, as always, with the news. Other than 101 disappearin' into the wind after leavin' here...hopin' he's okay...we got some reports of a ton of bad out by the Lincoln Memorial. Slavers, as I'm hearin' it. I would_ not  _head out that way. Raiders here, slavers there, super mutants everywhere...I got serious props to anyone with the balls to go outside anymore. You got the Brotherhood of Steel working their asses off, but they're not everywhere. If you ain't got the ammo, the weapons, the speed to run your ass away if shit hits the fan, then you at least better have someone with you that does. Ain't nobody can do this alone, that's for sure. And speakin' of livin' another day, you kiddies better make sure you keep your weapons in tip-top shape, you hear? The only Wasteland asshole it's gonna kill if you don't is you, and you, of all people, definitely don't want that, and neither do I. Until next time, this has been Three Dog; bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, let's see what the next song is..."_


	4. Behind Closed Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this got real dark real quick...
> 
> Warning for Ahzrukhal being a startlingly creepy and sadistic asshole, abuse, a panic attack, mentions of (past) rape/non-con, and the uncomfortable threat of it that d o e s n ' t actually lead to anything happening.

“It’s really not too bad,” Dr. Barrows murmurs as he places Charon’s hands in two small bowls of warm, irradiated water, having spent the last half hour tending to the other's injuries; stitching the gash on his brow, plucking out small slivers of glass from Charon’s palms with tweezers, applying a stimpak to his bullet wound. Though it takes a bit longer for it to work on a ghoul than a human, and doesn't heal nearly as well as radiation, it's a quick, practical solution that takes most of the pain away...and gets Charon back to his employer as fast as possible.

 

"You're just really bruised up. Raiders get you good again, huh?"

 

Charon doesn’t respond, eyes half-lidded as he stares off over the doctor's shoulder, and Barrows sighs. “You're exhausted. You need to sleep.” He raises Charon’s arm after a minute to inspect his palm, though they hardly need the careful treatment he's giving.They're already healed, and he is simply prolonging Charon having to go back as much as he can.

 

Charon's breath hitches at the movement, just slightly, and the doctor frowns. "Did that hurt? Are you injured somewhere else?"

 

Charon shakes his head—his arm isn't injured, just unbearably sore from his punishment—and Barrows hums doubtfully, pressing a cloth soaked in the same water to his brow, impressed the sutures have thus far held up through all of Charon’s scowling. “I wish you’d talk to me. I could help. You know I want to. But I also know he told you not to.” He shakes his head and stands up, tossing the cloth away and peeling off his gloves, putting a hand on his hip. “You'd be a better help down here.”

 

Charon finally looks at him, and Barrows averts his own gaze. “Shouldn’t talk about it. I know.”

 

 _Only if you prefer to keep living,_ Charon doesn’t say. Nearly a year ago now, Charon had a particularly brutal run-in with a group of raiders that left him with a fractured ankle, and Ahzrukhal, ever-displeased and in an even worse mood than usual, had forced Charon to go on standing on it until after closing. Of course it had been agonizing, but Charon is used to pain, has been through worse. He just didn't understand why Barrows had been so pissed about it as he tended to the break, and had been even further confused as the doctor proceeded to march himself right up to the Ninth Circle beside Charon and attempt to buy his contract.

 

Unsurprisingly, Ahzrukhal's response had been to laugh _,_ and then order Charon to toss him out, and to kill him if he ever asked again. Barrows hasn’t outright done so, and he’s smart enough not to; he just occasionally tests the waters. Charon has no idea why he seems to care the most out of everyone here; all Charon does is waste medical supplies and Barrows’ time, be it on himself or the ones he’s been ordered to injure.

 

“He’s just such a fucking dick,” Barrows mutters, half to himself. “Anyway...that's about as good as it's gonna get. You’re good to go." 

 

Charon nods, removing his hands from the water and pushing himself up off the cot, and Barrows frowns as he curls both arms across his chest; it’s different than the way he usually does it, and the doctor can tell it’s from discomfort instead of anger. “What’s wrong with this one?” He tries to take Charon’s arm again, and this time Charon jerks away and lets out a low, threatening growl.

 

“Jesus, alright!” Barrows says, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender before turning around. “See you later, then. Shit.”

 

Charon grits his teeth and storms back upstairs, taking up his corner without so much as a glance over at Ahzrukhal, who then whistles to get his attention and says in the most condescending voice he can, “Feeling _better,_ Charon?"

 

Charon says nothing, teeth now clenched so hard together that they’re aching more than anything else. Ahzrukhal doesn't _care_ about how he feels; he had only sent him down because there'd been blood on the floor at Charon's feet when he woke up, and Charon had been hunched over again, and Ahzrukhal never wants him to look weak. 

 

But Charon isn't weak; he's in pain from being _beaten,_ and he's tired. He doesn’t require sleep very often, but Ahzrukhal, like with everything else, won't let it be simple—won't just let him sleep when he needs it and be done with it. No, he likes to push it, to see how long Charon can go until he's ready to collapse before finally letting him lay down for a little while. Charon, after two centuries of being forced to carry on despite his exhaustion, or having rest taken away from him as punishment, can manage around a week and a half before he really starts to feel the effects, but every exhausting punishment he’s forced to do cuts it back, and he's already just about at his limit.

 

He’s not weak. He just, pathetically, has human needs.

 

“Well?” Ahzrukhal asks, and Charon realizes he’s still waiting for an answer.

 

“Yes."

 

"I'd at least like a 'thank you'."

 

"Thank you," Charon murmurs, hands curled into fists, and Ahzrukhal smiles, going over to him and handing him a rag, gesturing to the blood on the floor.

 

"Don't let it stain. Go on."

 

Carefully, Charon gets to his knees, trying to decide which arm to use for the least amount of pain. He settles on the healing one, still having to stifle a groan as he scrubs the red away.

 

"You know," Ahzrukhal says, quietly, looking down at him. "I recall you only getting to fifty-something last night...didn't I say two hundred?"

 

Charon doesn't hold back the sound of distress this time, shaking his head and lowering it. “You did.”

 

“What's wrong? Are you tired, Charon?”

 

It's not an offer of rest, it's a taunt, asking for something to further hurt Charon with. Still, foolishly, he mutters, "Yes."

 

“Hmm. Is that so?” He lifts his foot and presses it against Charon’s back to lower him completely to the ground, delighted when he isn’t met with any resistance. “But to let you rest would be a reward, and you don’t deserve that, do you? Do you, Charon?”

 

“No,” Charon says, closing his eyes. It’s not new for him to be quietly suffering from lack of one thing or another, and he had been well aware that nothing good would become of what he had done, so that’s fair. It’s his fault. It’s fair for him to be punished. It’s his fault.

 

Ahzrukhal nudges his side. “Ah, ah, ah. Open your eyes. Maybe when you reach two hundred, I’ll think about it.”

 

“I cannot.”

 

“I wasn’t asking. Start at fifty." 

 

“I—”

 

“Another word and I'll make it three hundred.”

 

Charon takes a deep breath, forcing himself up. Even with the small amount of time he’s had to recover, it hurts worse than last night. The discipline has never been this constant before—a hundred or so one night, more if he really made Ahzrukhal mad, but then that was that, and he’d at least have a few days, maybe even a week if he was very good, before the next time. It’s been the last two nights straight, and now again...he doesn’t know how many more nearly continuous sets of so many he’ll be able to do. But then...he has to do as many as he’s ordered to.

 

“Good. What is this?”

 

Charon frowns, turning his head to watch Ahzrukhal bend down and take a piece of paper half sticking out of his pocket.

 

The map.

 

For a moment, Charon forgets the pain, and a pang of cold dread goes through his chest. What will the man do with him for this? “It is nothing. Fifty-seven. I found it on a slave. Fifty— _ah..._ fifty-eight. I thought—it is nothing.”

 

“You thought what?” Ahzrukhal asks, reading it over and then returning his attention to Charon. “You liar. Were you going to go here?”

 

“Never,” Charon quickly replies, pausing for just a moment to catch his breath, to give his arms just a second to rest. “I cannot leave you. I would never disobey you, or my contract.”

 

“Keep fucking going. But you thought about it, didn’t you? Why else would you keep it? Huh? Do you want to be free, Charon?”

 

Charon stops again, startled. He's never, ever been asked that before, and he certainly doesn’t have a response, but Ahzrukhal barely gives him a chance, anyways, before adding, “Because you shouldn’t. You don’t fucking deserve it. You know that, right?”

 

Charon lowers his head and continues, and doesn't know why he expected anything else. “Yes.”

 

"I want to hear you say it.”

 

“I do not deserve freedom. Sixty-five."

 

“That's right. Because only the good should be free, and you are not good. You are _scum,_ Charon. You deserve nothing. Repeat that.”

 

“I deserve nothing,” Charon says. It’s nothing he hasn’t been told before, and it’s true, so it doesn’t bother him, but he can’t help his sharp inhalation as he hears Ahzrukhal rip the paper into pieces, watching them flutter to the floor.

 

“Say it again.”

 

“I deserve nothing.”

 

“Every time. Say it every time.”

 

The pain is somehow worse, now, as he grits the words out along with a number for every push-up, far too many of them. He gets to one hundred and thirty before tears start dripping down his face, and does fifteen more before finally Ahzrukhal is satisfied and orders him to stop. He immediately crumples to the floor, wheezing; he hasn’t been this aching, this tired, in a long, long while. He has to remind himself that he deserves it...it’s his fault...

 

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he curses under his breath and starts to pull away, only Ahzrukhal scowls and snaps, “Stop. I’m trying to look at your fucking armor. Hold still.”

 

Obediently, Charon doesn’t move, still trying to catch his breath, and glares at the man as he tugs at the new, jagged tears in the leather. “I wouldn’t usually waste money to buy you a damn thing, but you don’t look half as threatening like this. Why’d you have to go and fucking ruin it, huh?”

 

“It was not purposefully.”

 

“No, of course not. You’d never do anything just to spite me, would you?”

 

Charon scowls, and then jerks when Ahzrukhal touches him again; Ahzrukhal's eyes light up like someone just handed him a million caps. 

 

"I wasn't even trying to make you flinch," he says, smiling. "Are you scared, Charon? What of? Do tell me...I'm intrigued."

 

Keeping himself as steady as he can, Charon replies, “I am afraid of nothing.”

 

“That’s not how you looked...last night...oh my. Is that what you’re still thinking about? Her?"

 

There’s a long pause before Charon responds, “No.” It isn’t a lie; what she had done—tried to do—had only brought up older, darker memories he's still working on reburying.

 

“Then...are you afraid of me?” He touches Charon’s back again, then lightly runs his fingers along Charon's arm like he never has before; Charon growls, every muscle tensed, but he is still kept from pushing away by the order not to move.

 

"No."

 

“Are you sure?" Ahzrukhal asks, cupping Charon's chin and leaning closer. "Because that would be gratifying, really. You know your misery is more valuable to me than any amount of money.”

 

Oh, Charon knows. He shakes his head as much as he can, and Ahzrukhal hums, curling a finger of his other hand into one of the tears of his armor and smiling when Charon goes rigid in his attempt to suppress any unwanted reaction.

 

“That really bothers you, doesn’t it? Being touched?" He chuckles as Charon only glowers up at him. “It always has. It's very strange. Very interesting. I've never quite understood why, unless..."

 

_Don't._

 

"Unless you think that _I_ would do something like that," he goes on, stroking under Charon's chin and relishing the startled little gulp of air Charon takes in and holds as he goes absolutely still. 

 

"That I would take that sort of advantage of my _complete_ and _utter_ control over you. My, my...you couldn't do a thing about it, could you? You can't hurt me.” 

 

He's not even drunk; that's the most frightening thing. In all the years it's been since he first started giving Charon that disgustingly hungry look when severely under the influence, he's never _mentioned_ it. It was something Charon could pretend he didn't see, or didn't understand the meaning behind; it was something that wasn't real, wasn't reality, until now, and he doesn't take another breath until his lungs start to ache, wishes he didn't have to take another breath at all. He says nothing for a moment, clenching his fists, and then, so quietly: "You cannot hurt me, either."

 

"Oh, but Charon...it wouldn't hurt," Ahzrukhal purrs, running both hands over his pet and leaning heavily against him. Charon's whole body seizes, and he chokes out something deliciously close to a sob, and oh, the fear in his eyes is something Ahzrukhal wants to remember forever, the sound music to his ears. When Charon tries to pull away, Ahzrukhal grabs his hair and says, "I told you to stay still."

 

Charon violently shudders again, screwing his eyes shut, and then he breathes out and goes limp in a sudden, defeated resignation he hasn't shown before, presses his face against the floor and digs his nails into his palms.

 

Ahzrukhal is awed; just the  _threat_ has broken him quicker and possibly further than anything he's done before...it's information he's certainly going to put to use at some point, if no other punishment seems to get Charon to do what he wants. He grins, hums, and then finally releases him, hears Charon suck in another desperate breath like he'd been holding it again. How beautiful it would be to see his pet cry, but he supposes that, with how Charon is, he'll never get quite that lucky.

 

"Don't flatter yourself," he says. "You disgust me, Charon. As much as I love to make you unhappy, I wouldn’t do that for all the caps in the goddamn Wasteland. _Probably._ I'd _really_ have to be out of my fucking mind on every drug and liquor I have. Maybe that smoothskin didn’t have any better options, but I certainly do." He tilts his head, noticing something just as good as tears, maybe better.

 

"Are you...shaking? You are! You really thought I would, didn’t you? Hold on...has that happened before? Has—”

 

“Stop,” Charon says, and his breathing is suddenly very loud, and very quick. He shakes his head, glancing around like he’s looking for an escape and then flinching back when Ahzrukhal grabs his chin.

 

“Sit up. Look at me. Has it? Your contract’s traded hands a hundred times...have you?”

 

“No," Charon hisses, baring his teeth, and yanks free, scrambling to obey the order to sit and pressing himself back against the wall. He, shamefully, has no control over the stinging in his eyes, or the trembling in his hands and body; it's the same thing he experiences every time he awakens from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and he cannot stand it going on a second longer. Not in front of Ahzrukhal. Not after this. “I said _stop._ "

 

“I didn’t do anything...but they did, didn’t they?"

 

"Stop! You know _nothing!"_

 

“You look like you’re going to _cry,_  Charon. I’ve never seen you like this before. And that tells me I know everything. Oh, this is wonderful! Have you expected me to hurt you this whole time? Oh, Charon," he laughs, "you poor thing! I would have thought it would void your contract...no violence and all that...how did that happen, hm? How did they get away with it? Just for curiosity's sake, of course."

 

He's still acting like Charon doesn't _know,_ and Charon grabs at his hair and yanks so hard a few strands come out, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

"Oh, my...don't hurt yourself, there. Have you just _forgotten_ about it all these years? I’ll make sure you never forget again, Charon. And you’ll keep your clothes just how they are. I hope it makes you feel even more vulnerable.”

 

“ _Bastard!_ ” Charon hisses, much louder than he usually speaks, and Ahzrukhal grins, only further encouraged, dipping his hand along Charon's back once more and then standing up.

 

“I do try my best, with you. Now...be a good pet and unlock the doors for me, will you? It’s just about time to open.”

 

Trying unsuccessfully to steady his breathing, Charon gets up, opens the doors despite how agonizing even that small action turns out to be, and then retreats to his corner and tightly crosses his arms, trying to wrap them around himself without it being too obvious. His unblinking gaze is still fixed on Ahzrukhal, who pretends not to notice. Charon sees his smirk, though—so disgustingly thrilled to be causing so much pain. It all makes what's left of Charon's skin crawl and itch, and he feels like he might be sick, and he can't stop  _shaking._

 

Ahzrukhal wouldn't. _Probably._ He _probably_ wouldn't. _Probably._  

 

He shakes even harder for a minute, his breaths shallow and quick, and has to brace himself back on the wall to ground himself, has to scratch at the back of his hand until it's raw as a distraction. Eventually, thankfully, he manages to push away the weakness, the panic, and calm himself, retreating back into the security of indifference with a few final, heavy sighs, standing up straight again and quieting his breathing. 

 

"Are you feeling better,Charon?" Ahzrukhal asks, and Charon turns himself away and closes his eyes.

 

The barkeep goes about his morning as normal; wiping down the counters, checking his stock, having breakfast without giving Charon a thing: all routine. Charon is an expert at ignoring hunger pangs, but it’s harder every day his needs are deemed unworthy of attention. He’s had employers with only small amounts of hesitation in occasionally handing over supplies to him, and employers that would only do so when he was no longer able to function properly; Ahzrukhal falls somewhere in between. He, most times, will hand Charon something once every couple of days, enough to keep him going...unless Charon has made him angry, or he just decides not to. After the last two days, though, Charon expects he'll receive nothing for the rest of the week. It’s, again, nothing new; he doesn't deserve freedom, and he doesn't deserve to feel anything but pain and discomfort and misery. It's what he was trained to think, to accept, and he finds it ridiculous to even consider any other way of living. It won't kill him. He's gone weeks without eating before. It doesn't matter. 

 

He feels sick, still, anyways. He might never want to eat again.

 

Still, he is staring at the bowl in his employer’s hands without knowing it, and Ahzrukhal turns to fully show Charon what he cannot have, brows raised like he’s daring Charon to comment. Charon only scowls, turning his gaze to the door as it opens. Luckily for Charon, Ahzrukhal pays all of his attention to customers, when they’re here.

 

It’s only ever behind closed doors that Charon suffers.

 

He keeps his eyes open despite how heavy they become as the hours pass, though most of the day blurs together with the last thousand until that afternoon, as he quickly takes an opportunity as it arises to head to the door.

 

Ahzrukhal stops him by loudly slamming a bottle down on the counter and hissing out, “Did I say you could leave?”

 

Charon knows it is only because his employer is still furious with him; usually Ahzrukhal doesn't choose to comment. “Your orders are to only leave once, only when it is not busy, and only if I must. I have not yet left today, it is not busy, and I must,” he says, though still waits, and Ahzrukhal glares at him.

 

“Maybe that's too much freedom, too,” he says, sauntering over to Charon, who straightens up completely, as if his height has ever been threatening to the ones he cannot hurt. “Maybe you should ask my permission."

 

Charon wants to take a step away, but holds himself still. That would be weakness. It would be admitting that he is nervous, that he wants to be as far away from Ahzrukhal as he can, and that would only make the man get closer. "I already have your permission."

 

"Not anymore. I take it back."

 

Charon fumes, quietly, and glares down at the man. “It is what you wish of me?"

 

“Yes,” Ahzrukhal says, smirking at how angry it has made Charon. “Ask me.”

 

Charon clenches his fists and sets his jaw. “ _May_ I leave?”

 

“Oh...and where might you be going?”

 

He only ever goes one goddamn place without orders. “To relieve myself.”

 

“Uh-huh. So? Ask me. Go on.”

 

Incredulous, Charon purses his lips, then presses them into a thin line; his breaths are rough and audible through what's left of his nose, and Ahzrukhal is thrilled _._

 

“Does this upset you, too, Charon? Excellent. Today has been so good to me! Ask, _nicely,_ and say please, or you can try again tomorrow." 

 

Charon huffs and looks away, shaking his head. He knows _everything_ can be taken away from him, but he hasn't been ordered by any employer to _beg_ for such a basic need in at least a century. The last one who did, under whom the only thing Charon had been able to do without asking was  _breathe,_  had turned out to be one of his finer kills, in the end. Oh, and what a pleasure it had been. He hopes he lives long enough to one day do just the same to Ahzrukhal.

 

“Fine. Don’t. Doesn’t bother me,” Ahzrukhal says when he hesitates, starting to turn around, and finally Charon grits out, “ _May_ I go relieve myself?”

 

Ahzrukhal grins, chuckling, and Charon only glares sharper, expecting the bastard to still say no just to top it all off. It's not like he hasn't refused to let Charon leave until after closing before, but it's not even busy. There's hardly anyone here. There's no reason for him to be dragging this out except _punishment,_ and so Charon tilts his head down a bit, submissively. When Ahzrukhal still just watches him, Charon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, winces, and says, " _Please_ may I go relieve myself?"

 

"Sorry, what was that?"

 

Charon can't help but think about the look that would be on Ahzrukhal's face if Charon just decided to piss right on his shiny new shoes. "Please.  _Please_  may I?"

 

Ahzrukhal's smile only gets wider, and he claps his hands together. "Oh, such good manners, pet! Very good boy. Yes. Go on. Hurry back.”

 

Charon scowls, whirling around and shoving the door open with his shoulder. _Humiliating._ Just another addition to the mile-long list of reasons he wants to see Ahzrukhal bleed.

 

As soon as he’s down the stairs, he, yet again, bumps into the smoothskin he’d nearly shot dead outside before, and he finds it a lot more irritating this time.

 

“Oh God—” the human says, staring up at Charon with wide, frightened eyes. “Sorry…”

 

Charon doesn't react, continuing forward, and then very nearly misplaces his next step. He’s never clumsy, never even loses his balance, but he is pitifully weary, and it disgusts him that it has to happen in plain sight. He lurches to the side, just barely, catching himself before he thinks anyone can notice, and then—

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Of course the boy is the one to see. He doesn’t acknowledge the smoothskin, quicklyheading off, and when he returns several minutes later, the human is still there, watching him.

 

Charon shoots him the sharpest glare he can, and the boy scowls, crossing his arms. “What is your deal? I just asked if you were okay!”

 

 _Well._ That isn’t what Charon expected. And the smoothskin apparently feels the same, because he blanches, and then puts his hands out, and then mutters something Charon thinks might be another apology before he darts off.

 

Charon snorts, rolls his eyes, and goes back to his post, only this time he does think of the human again. What the hell is he still doing here? Most visitors would have come and gone by now, especially humans. Underworld isn’t exactly ideal for them. He hadn't gotten a perfect, long look at the human, but it was enough to see he isn't Wasteland material, not at all. Tiny, and skittish, and far younger than Charon has seen in a long time...maybe he's stayed so long because he's hiding. 

 

When the door opens later and the same smoothskin comes in, he glances at Charon and surprisingly looks less fearful, more...interested? Charon glares at him again, and the human quickly turns away, going up to take a seat at the bar.

 

Ahzrukhal immediately gives the boy his attention, and Charon quickly realizes the human must have been in here before. The sight of Ahzrukhal smiling again makes him feel ill, and he looks away, trying to tune his hearing into the music playing on the radio. He wishes it was a more upbeat song playing; this...this is almost lulling...and he’s so tired…

 

The Wanderer notices Ahzrukhal’s eyes narrow, caught on something behind him, and he jumps and nearly chokes on his beer as the barkeep snaps, "Charon!"

 

He turns just in time to see the ghoul in the corner jolt like he’s been startled awake. Immediately on edge, Charon turns to Ahzrukhal and takes a step towards him, but Ahzrukhal merely waves a hand dismissively, sending the ghoul back to the corner.

 

“What does he do for you?” the Wanderer asks, quietly, like he’s afraid Charon will hear—and that’s not really far from the truth.

 

“Anything I want him to,” Ahzrukhal replies. "He protects me. Keeps the drunks in line. Pretty much I point at something and Charon hurts it.”

 

“He doesn’t talk much.”

 

Ahzrukhal hums. “His company is rather refreshing, isn’t it? But do not mistake his brevity for stupidity. That would be very unwise.”

 

“I didn’t think he was stupid.” the Wanderer says, taking another swig.

 

“Sometimes he even fools me,” Ahzrukhal mutters, a hint of something dark in his tone, maybe anger, but the Wanderer can’t be sure, and he certainly doesn’t ask, pushing his glasses up on his nose and clearing his throat.

 

"You know, you look even more stressed than yesterday," Ahzrukhal says, and the boy looks at him, tired.

 

"Always."

 

"I do have some...medicinal remedies, that could...ease that, if you so desired."

 

The Wanderer sighs, laying an arm across the counter and resting his chin down on it, but it's too clear he's considering it. "I dunno."

 

"It would help, my boy...we all need a little aid to survive in this world nowadays..."

 

"Yeah...that reminds me...I wanna talk to you about something."

 

"Shall I get you another drink?" Ahzrukhal asks, and the Wanderer shakes his head.

 

“Not about me. I...I want to talk about Charon’s contract.”

 

**x**

_"Three-Dog here again, boys and girls. Another beautiful day in the great D.C. Wastes, eh? Of course it is. Nothin' better than the sweet sound of guns firin' and muties screamin' outside as you wake up. Hello, world! Hello, and go fuck yourself! Ah, but maybe one day it'll change. I did say maybe. I'm here to give you news, not false hope. But what's the harm of a lil' wishin' once and a while? Speakin' of news, I've got some for ya. Not only are there those fucking slavers up at the Lincoln Memorial now, but I've gotten word that there's a shit-load of raiders that've been gatherin' in Evergreen Mills. Money's on them havin' some sort of camp. I'd stay the hell away from there, if I were you, unless you got good aim and even better luck. Until next time, this is Three-Dog. Bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	5. One More Thing

Two thousand caps, or _murder._

 

That’s what Ahzrukhal settles on as trade for Charon’s contract, and the Wanderer feels sick even thinking about going through with _either_ thing. Ahzrukhal wants Greta gone, all because she’s been taking some of his business. The Wanderer has absolutely nothing against Greta, and doing something as awful as killing her, leaving Carol alone again? It’s disgusting.

 

Yet...so is buying a _slave._

 

Ahzrukhal had called Charon his ‘employee’. When the Wanderer visited the Chop Shop, Nurse Graves had called Charon Ahzrukhal’s _pet,_ and Dr. Barrows had had more to say about it all than the Wanderer could stand to hear. Mysterious errands in the middle of the night? Forcing him to throw people down the stairs and over the railing because of a few unpaid caps? The Wanderer had met Patchwork, who, while being almost completely unintelligible, was sweet, and it makes him furious to hear the ghoul had _literally_ lost an arm just a few days before because of Charon’s treatment. Or...Ahzrukhal’s treatment. Poor Charon. He looks so out of place here, too, and he _has_ to be miserable. But no more. The Wanderer will buy the contract, and give it to Charon, and free him. End of story.

 

Even if he means to do that, he still can’t help but think about how he can, just maybe, get Charon to stay with him for a while; just until he finds his father. And although it’s a sick alternative...he also considers that, if Charon does _not_ want to, he could hold onto the contract until then. He hates the idea and is absolutely _appalled_ with himself for even thinking about it, but he can’t pretend he can do this alone anymore. He’s a decent shot, but he panics at the first sign of battle. By himself, he’s going to run out of supplies, of strength, of energy. He cannot survive on his own. He was never meant for the Wasteland. But his father needs him, and right now...right now, his father is his only priority, no matter the cost.

 

He struggles inwardly about it for a while, counts all the caps he's collected (well, mostly stolen...but it's not like the dead they'd been in the bags of minded, right?), and comes up short anyways. Maybe he can roam the metros a little more...try to find them without straying to far or  _dying..._

 

"I'll help you," Barrows says when he goes back the next morning to stock up on the medical supplies he'll need.

 

"What?" the Wanderer asks, frowning, and Barrows glances at his nurse before twirling a key around his finger and heading over to the safe in the corner. 

 

"How many do you need? You said he wants two thousand, right?" 

 

"Yeah...I have...a little less than a thousand. Why would you...?"

 

"Look," Barrows says, waving dismissively at him. "I've thought about buying that goddamn contract for years, but Ahzrukhal wouldn't sell it to me. Now you have the chance to get him the hell out of here? You're taking it. I'll take it for you." 

 

The Wanderer sniffles softly as Barrows places several bags of caps in his arms, shaking his head. "I don't...I don't know if I can pay you back!"  

 

"Take  _care_ of him, and we'll call it even," Barrows says, nudging the safe closed and putting his hands on the Wanderer's shoulders. "Yeah? You'll...you ain't gonna be Ahzrukhal, right?"

 

"Yeah," the Wanderer manages, nodding. "I'll...I'll help him. Thank you."

 

Barrows pats him, smiles, and nods. "Alright then. Go."

 

The Wanderer hesitates, and then takes a breath and turns, slowly walking up to the Ninth Circle.

 

God, he can't believe he's really going to go through with this.

 

He finds Charon is in the exact same place, his arms crossed, glaring just as sharp as ever at the Wanderer, who wonders if the ghoul ever sleeps—or is ever permitted to.

 

With a sigh, the Wanderer goes over to the counter Ahzrukhal is wiping down, gently placing his bags of caps down, though he doesn’t take his hand off it.

 

“Good morning,” Ahzrukhal murmurs without looking up, and his tone hints amusement. “No stomach for hard work, eh? Then...that better be two thousand.”

 

“It is,” the Wanderer says. “You’re sure he can’t hurt the person who has his contract?”

 

Ahzrukhal smiles and gestures to himself. “I’ve had him for a few decades, and I don’t have a scratch. Tell me you haven’t seen the way he looks at me.”

 

“I thought he looked at everyone like that.”

 

“He does,” Ahzrukhal says, shrugging, and nudges the bags. “So?”

 

“Two thousand caps,” the Wanderer murmurs, taking a deep breath and then removing his hand. “They’re yours."

 

“Yes, they are,” Ahzrukhal says, practically purring, looking like he’s talking _to_ the money, and then he makes his way towards the safe in the corner, coming back with a blood-stained envelope, something the Wanderer nearly jerks back from.

 

“It’s been through a lot,” Ahzrukhal says, smirking, and places it into the Wanderer’s waiting hands. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, my boy. I’ll give _you_ the pleasure of informing Charon yourself. Do try to look a little less scared of him than you have. He can’t hurt you now. Unless...you lose it.”

 

The Wanderer tenses, gripping the envelope tight enough it crinkles slightly, and then releases his breath and tucks it safely into an inner pocket of his armor. “I won’t lose it.”

 

“For your sake, I’d hope,” Ahzrukhal says, still with a twisted sort of grin on his face, and then holds a finger up. “One more thing. I’d appreciate it _greatly_ if your first command to him was to keep his weapons down and away from me, hm?”

 

The Wanderer looks him over, slowly, and Ahzrukhal snorts. “That, or hand me back my protection.”

 

“No, no. That’s...that’s fine,” the Wanderer says, and finally moves, a little reluctantly, over to Charon. “Hey…”

 

“Talk to—”

 

“Yeah, uh, about that. Good news, I think! I’m your new employer.”

 

Charon blinks, and then his gaze sweeps over the Wanderer like he’s trying to determine whether or not to believe it. Finally, he says, “You purchased my contract from Ahzrukhal.”

 

“I...I did. Yes.”

 

Charon’s face remains impassive, but the Wanderer can tell something has changed; he just can’t quite figure it out. Is the other happy? Upset?

 

“That is good to know,” he says, quietly. “Please, wait here. I must take care of something.”

 

“Um—” The Wanderer watches as Charon passes him without even a glance, and then says, louder, “Wait.”

 

Charon stops.

 

“...Don’t hurt him.”

 

Tensing, he whirls around to face the boy. “ _What?”_ he hisses through clenched teeth, absolutely livid, and the Wanderer takes a step back, stammering nonsensically. Charon turns briefly to look at Ahzrukhal, who waves at him and grins, and then looks back to the Wanderer. “You are his _friend?_ ”

 

“Business partner,” Ahzrukhal chimes in, and Charon stalks over to the man anyway, looming over him with two inches between them.

 

“I will kill you,” he growls, and Ahzrukhal straightens his tie, adjusts his suit.

 

“No, Charon. You won’t. You can’t, now. I'm not stupid. Doesn't it upset you? I hope it keeps you up at night."

 

“I will _kill_ you.”

 

“Please. I’ve heard enough.”

 

Charon takes a step back, breathing harshly, and clenches his fists.

 

“Run along now,” Ahzrukhal says, waving his hand. When Charon still doesn’t move, no longer under obligation to follow any orders given by him, Ahzrukhal smirks, closes the distance between them, and whispers, “Are you waiting for a goodbye kiss?”

 

Charon snarls, shoving Ahzrukhal back and away from him, finally, _finally_ able to escape. Ahzrukhal trips, nearly falling to the floor, and then he huffs, comes a step closer, and backhands Charon across the face so hard he both feels and hears something crack.

 

Charon actually staggers from the force behind it, and his vision flashes white; after all this time of not having to worry about it, he had, somehow, been completely unprepared, and therefore it’s his own damn fault. He should have known.

 

“ _God_ that felt good,” Ahzrukhal breathes, though the way he cradles his hand after suggests otherwise.

 

“What the fuck?” the Wanderer demands, finally finding his voice. “You asshole!”

 

Both turn to look at the boy like he’s _insane_ , but Ahzrukhal lifts a hand in surrender. “Excuse me. I shouldn’t have. You can be on your way, now. Bye bye, Charon. Oh...poor thing...you’re bleeding…”

 

Charon spits blood at Ahzrukhal’s feet and then returns to the Wanderer’s side as his former employer only chuckles. He doesn’t know why the Wanderer is staring at him, and he can’t decipher what the boy is thinking, but he doesn’t really _care._ The only thought that’s motivated him to keep going, the only thing he’s wanted to do for the last _eternity_ of standing here, taking all of Ahzrukhal's  _shit_ —this stupid fucking _kid_ has just ripped it away from him. He wants to kill _him_ more than anything, now, wring his scrawny little neck _,_ but he can’t do that either. Instead, he simply swipes a hand across his lips and says, “You hold my contract. As long as it is so, until it is given or sold to another, you are my employer, and for good or ill, I serve you. I will do as you command. I will fight for you in combat. I will protect your life with my own at all cost. I—”

 

“Wait.”

 

Charon goes quiet. The Wanderer watches as blood continues to trickle down Charon's chin from where Ahzrukhal’s rings had smashed across his mouth, and then takes a look back at Ahzrukhal. He quickly realizes he doesn’t have to keep a promise to someone who’d owned and probably _beaten_ a slave. Ahzrukhal is no different from Moriarty, and the Wanderer knows _exactly_ what he wants to do to Moriarty.

 

“I take back what I said,” he says, softly, just before walking out the door. “Do what you want to him.”

 

Ahzrukhal never even has the chance to shout before Charon takes him out with one shot. He fires three times more, walking forward as he does, and then again, and _again,_ blowing every goddamn piece of the sick fuck to a different part of the room.

 

He doesn't think about ammo. He doesnt think about how he's wasting what he will need to keep his new employer safe. He thinks about Ahzrukhal's hands on him, about every fucked-up thing he's ever been ordered to do and every fucked-up thing that could have happened, and then he  _fires again._

 

When his gun finally clicks empty, he stands panting and blood-spattered above a now completely unrecognizable pile of gore. He reloads, drops the empty magazine to the floor, and slings his gun over his back again. He lets something like a smirk briefly take his lips as he looks down again, marveling in his handywork, and then turns to leave.

 

Everyone stares at him, and moves back as he moves forward. He ignores them, because they don't matter, and he's as happy as he's ever been, adrenaline still rushing through his veins. Still, he can tell he won't exactly be welcome back, and he keeps his hand on the knife at his thigh as he rejoins the Wanderer outside Carol’s Place. The boy is shaking, eyes wide as he looks up at Charon, then at the blood on him, and then he opens the door and goes inside.

 

Charon follows, and it’s mostly empty, now. No doubt everyone had heard the shots, and gone to see what had happened. He glares at the few still there that dare to make eye-contact with him, and they quickly look away and escape to another room. They certainly won’t be getting a fucking apology, if that’s what they’re looking for. He plants himself at the Wanderer’s side as the boy kneels on the ground, gathering his things and hauling his bag onto his shoulder. When the boy stands, he smacks up against Charon, and it startles a choked gasp out of him as he staggers back to sit on the bed.

 

“Jesus fuck," he breathes, "...don’t do that.”

 

“There is something you wish me not to do?”

 

“Don’t...be that close.”

 

Charon takes a step back and nods. "Very well.”

 

“W-wait, no, uh—" The Wanderer fumbles, reaching into his pocket and holding out Charon’s contract with small, trembling hands. “Here. Y-you’re free. Please don’t shoot me. I...I didn't know what I was doing.”

 

Charon blinks, looking down at it. “I cannot harm the owner of my contract.”

 

“No, I don’t want to be your owner,” the Wanderer says, shaking the envelope. “Take it. I bought you to free you.”

 

“I belong to no one,” Charon says, voice low. “You purchased my contract, not me.”

 

“Whatever, just take it. Please?”

 

“To keep safe?”

 

“To have!"

 

“I cannot own my own contract.”

 

“Wh-what? Why not?”

 

“It is against the rules. I cannot disobey it. It is not allowed. My contract must have an owner. You may sell or give it to another if you wish to rid of me.”

 

“No...wait, I—oh, fuck.” He leans back, putting a hand to his mouth as he fully understands, and he is _terrified._ “I...I don’t want you! That’s not—”

 

He doesn't... _want_ Charon? Then why had he wasted his caps? “You purchased my contract.”

 

“Because I thought I could free you! I—I don’t…”

 

Charon looks him over, doubtfully. “You did not purchase it for my services in combat?”

 

“It was a thought,” the Wanderer says, letting his arms rest heavily beside him. “I...I was gonna free you! And then _ask_ if you could, like, escort me or whatever to Rivet City! Only if you wanted to!”

 

“I will protect your life with my own,” Charon says, mechanically. “I will escort you anywhere you wish. I—”

 

“Stop...please.”

 

Charon closes his mouth. _Stop_ seems to be the only order the boy can give. The Wanderer looks up at him and appears almost defeated.

 

“I tried to help,” he mutters, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall. “I didn’t. I just bought someone. I’m a fucking slaver.”

 

“I am _not_ a slave,” Charon says, and it’s miraculously convincing. “I am your bodyguard, if you wish to keep my contract.”

 

“If I hand it off, will you shoot me fifty times, too?”

 

Charon’s eyes darken. “No.”

 

The Wanderer may or may not believe it; he doesn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he stares at the envelope for a moment before tucking it away again. He then looks around, stands up, and heads to the door. “W-we should go before anyone gets...mad. Do you have anything to get?”

 

“I carry my belongings with me. Everything I possess is yours.”

 

“...Great,” the boy mutters, looking more than a little disturbed, and then he shakes his head and starts down the stairs. He wants to say goodbye to Carol, to Tulip, the doctor, but his fear keeps him from doing so. Right now, he just needs to get out of here, get some fresh air, just  _breathe._ He can come back at a later time, when he is not afraid of being  _shot_ by angry residents.

 

"Your caps," Charon says. "Do you wish me to retrieve them?"  

 

The Wanderer shakes his head. "No. No. Were mostly the doctor's, I...no. Gotta go. Can't have them. They'll be bloody."

 

The doctor had given him caps to buy Charon? To at last free him? 

 

Well. He wishes he could say thank you, or at least goodbye. Nobody has ever, ever done something like that for him before. 

 

He turns, briefly, and his eyes catch Barrows as the doctor watches them from just outside the Chop Shop. 

 

He thinks the man might be smiling, but then, he can't really see that far, and...why would Barrows be smiling? Just because he'd gotten Charon out? 

 

He feels something foreign in his chest, maybe some sort of fondness, because that's probably _exactly_ what Barrows is so happy about, but it frightens him to  _feel,_  to know for certain that someone had really _cared_ about his well-being, and so he pushes it away before they even step out the door.

 

He takes this time to fully look over the boy, and he is built unlike any other who has ever purchased Charon's services. Charon recalls most, if not all, being burly and muscular, sometimes stronger than him. This one is none of those things. He’s terribly small, even more so than Charon remembers noticing before; Charon is nearly seven feet tall, and the boy can’t be more than a few inches over five. He’s still shaking, and when he leans against the wall just beside the front entrance to The Mall, looking ready to fall over, Charon reaches out towards his bag. “Do you wish me to carry this?”

 

The boy flinches, reeling back, and Charon pulls his hand away and apologizes.

 

“No, I’m sorry...shit...I just…” he sighs, shaking his head, looking up at him. “You’re...I’m just gonna have to...get used to this. Or...figure something out. I...I don’t know. It’s just...really weird. And creepy. I don’t like it.” He rubs at his face for a long moment, and when he looks at Charon again, Charon swears the dark circles under the boy’s eyes are even more pronounced. “I need to get to Rivet City. Through the metro. I...I’m still outta ammo.”

 

“It is my sole objective to defend you. I will handle any combat situation that arises. I am more than capable. I shall cover you as you run to the stairs.”

 

“Oh. That’s...yes. Good. Okay.” He hesitates, then puts his hand out. “Guess we were never properly introduced…and if we’re gonna be together for a little while...I dunno. I’m Max.”

 

Charon only stares at it, frowning, and the Wanderer gives a small, awkward smile. “You shake it.”

 

It’s not an order, so Charon does not. “I am still Charon, unless you wish to rename me.”

 

Max shrinks away, like the words physically pain him. “I do _not._ ”

 

“Then let us move on.”

 

“Yeah. Sorry. Alright.” He doesn’t say anything else, quickly opening the door and darting out to seek shelter behind the concrete barrier.

  
  
Willow, for once, _does_ look surprised to see Charon. She comes over to them, takes one look at the Wanderer, and says, “With him now?”

 

Charon almost forgets that, for now, he has permission to talk. Almost. "Yes.”

 

“He speaks,” she says, grinning, and tosses her cigarette butt to the ground. "And...Ahzrukhal?"

 

“Ahzrukhal is dead.” It’s the last time he’ll ever let the name pass from his lips.

 

“About time,” she says, nodding her approval. “Fuck ‘im. You better come say hi next time you're around. Everyone'll calm down eventually. Until then, good luck. Good luck, tourist,” she says, louder, and Max glances up at her and gives a half-smile and a wave.

 

Charon crouches next to him, if only to make his height less of a distraction. “Wait until I am positioned correctly. I will signal you.”

 

Max nods, and Charon settles his shotgun comfortably into his grip and walks. He doesn’t rush; that would only draw attention, and despite him being immune to the mutants’ rage, it will only cause trouble for the Wanderer.

 

He glances around, and being outside without needing to go scavenge for weapons, or trade them off to the scum of the Wasteland...it’s one of the greatest reliefs he’s ever known. He’s truly free from Ahzrukhal; never, ever again will he have to answer to that monster, obey his awful commands, or be _tormented_ by him. He doesn’t expect the boy to be much better, but he doubts many could be worse.

 

He's been surprised by just how terrible the hands holding his contract have been before, but he doesn't think it will happen this time. Not with this boy, this _child_. The Wanderer looks too terrified, of Charon and everything around him, to be much of a threat. That doesn't mean he won't find ways to hurt Charon, doesn't mean he won't order his new weapon to kill like all before, but with the way he acts, it’s like he hasn’t dealt with much death at all. But then...that is impossible. He looks to be in his mid-teens, so for at least that long, he’s found a way to survive. Maybe he had a previous partner? Maybe he was part of a settlement? Or…

 

He turns to stand in front of the stairs down, looks back to where Max is nervously peering over the barrier, and is reminded of the boy Three-Dog has been speaking so fondly about on the radio for the past two weeks, the one looking for his father. A Vault? That would certainly explain how inexperienced he is, how soft and scar-free and _weak_.

 

With a small wave of his hand, Charon signals for Max to run, and damn, if nothing else, the kid is _fast_. He’s beside Charon before any super mutant even catches his scent, and down the stairs before Charon fires his first shot. His aim has remained accurate, at least, after all this time; the nearest mutant staggers and grabs at its leg. Charon quickly scans the area to make sure he has enough time, and then meets the Wanderer down at the entrance, slamming both gates shut.

 

“Fuck—”

 

Charon whips around in time to see Max slam his tire iron down onto a radroach, once, twice, until it’s pulverized and the boy is breathing harder than he should be after such minimal effort. He shakes the iron, grimacing in disgust and then tucks it back into his belt, looking at Charon. “Th-thanks.”

 

Charon stares. No one has ever _thanked_ him before, not without sarcasm, but the Wanderer's tone is genuine. “Yes,” he says finally, because he isn’t sure what else he _can_ say, and Max purses his lips, shrugs, and heads off.

 

“Let me go first,” Charon says, quickening his pace to place himself in front of the boy. 

 

“Right. Sorry.”

 

To be thanked _and_ apologized to? This is getting...uncomfortable, now, to be treated like...like he _deserves_ kindness. He is not a friend, he is an...employee. The sooner the boy realizes this and shows what he's really like, the better. Charon never appreciates when they pretend they'll be different. “You do not need to apologize to me.”

 

Max rubs the back of his neck, and Charon quirks an eyebrow when, again, all he gets in response is a muttered _sorry._ How very odd. 

 

He hears movement ahead before anything else can be said, and he gestures Max against the wall, both of them once again crouching to hide themselves in the shadows. “Likely raiders," he says. "I will scout ahead and make sure the way is clear for you.”

 

“What if there’s too many?”  

 

“I am capable.”

 

“But what if—”

 

“I am capable,” Charon repeats, more forcefully, already poised to move, and Max frowns.

 

“Maybe we can just—” His hand settles itself on Charon's arm, to stop him, and while Charon makes no sound he violently recoils, and the sudden motion throws Max off balance enough that he stumbles back and falls on his ass, dropping the tire iron with a loud, resonating _clang!_

 

It goes quiet, and for a second their eyes meet, before a bullet hits just a few inches from Max’s foot. He yelps, rolling sideways and out of the line of fire, and Charon growls, stepping out, dropping the raider with two shots while several other voices curse and yell. He stalks his way down to the platform, swearing as he does, and Max watches fearfully.

 

“Charon...Charon!” He grips the tire iron tightly, and then his gaze lands on the dead man, then at the gun beside him.  

 

He flinches back at the sound of gunfire, but then, it’s his own fault they’d heard, and he’ll be damned if he lets Charon die ten minutes after 'freeing' him.

 

He waits for a moment, creeping his way down the slanted walkway, and then he hears Charon cry out in pain from down the stairs. He runs, grabs the weapon, and leans over the railing to see three raiders slowly making their way towards a pile of concrete blocks, where he assumes Charon is taking shelter.

 

He takes aim and shoots the one nearest to the blocks dead. The other two whip around, startled, aiming for Max now, and Charon leans out and drops them before they can.

 

“Holy shit!” Max says, and Charon sighs and slides down to sit once he’s sure they are safe. He’d, somehow, stupidly, let one of them take him by surprise. He should have been paying more attention. He’s just...exhausted, and it's getting to be dangerous. He rubs the back of his head, where the butt of a rifle had slammed into it, and knows it’s far less than what he deserves.

 

“Are you okay?” Max asks, coming to kneel beside Charon, and Charon quickly straightens up.

 

“Yes. Are you wounded?”

 

“No. No, I’m fine. Fuck. God, I’m so glad you’re here, I would have died. Thank you.” He stands up, offering Charon his hand, and Charon ignores it, getting up on his own.

 

“It is what I am for," he says. "We should continue. There will likely be more.”

 

“There’s always more,” Max sighs, and Charon grunts. It’s the last thing said between them until they emerge in the sunlight, and Max, as he squints at Rivet City, feels hopeful.

 

“My dad’s here. He has to be,” he says, bounding off excitedly, and Charon, dutifully, follows, watching in vague amazement as Max gives off one of his only bottles of purified water to a man sitting alone and dirty and begging, and gives it for _free,_ with a smile. Charon can’t remember ever being with someone so... _naive,_  and...so human. The boy is being kind, for now. But Charon has been tricked by that act before, with disastrous consequences, and he hasn’t let it happen since. It will change. It always does.

 

“That thing is not comin’ in here with you,” the security officer that greets them across the bridge says, quickly reminding Charon of how humans _really_ are. “Uh-uh. No chance.”

 

“He’s my bodyguard,” Max says, quietly.

 

“A ghoul?” He steps closer, and Charon lets out a quiet, warning growl. “He sounds like he’s feral already."

 

“He’s not. I swear! Please. I just need to see Dr. Li, and he, Charon, keeps me safe. She knows my dad. She knows where he is. He's probably here! Please.”

 

The officer narrows his eyes and looks them over, slowly, and then points at Max. “Fine. But you keep him in check, or _we_ will, and you’ll both end up in the fuckin’ river. Got it?”

 

Max’s arm shoots out as he catches movement from beside him, stopping Charon from advancing on the man. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

 

“Alright. Name’s Harkness. Stairwell's on your left, everything's got signs leading to it."

 

“Thank you.” Max says, looking up at Charon and hissing, “Relax.”

 

Charon growls again and rolls his shoulders, trying to ease the tension out of them. He unclenches his hands, takes a breath, and then nods. The Wanderer goes off towards the stairwell, and Charon follows, turning while the boy gets the door open to glare at Harkness, lip curled up, daring him to do anything.

 

“Watch yourself,” Harkness says, quietly, and turns around, and Charon doesn’t take his eyes off the man until the door slams behind them.

 

“I...I didn’t mean to order you,” Max says, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

 

Charon sighs. One more apology and he'll probably want to wring the kid's neck again. “You hold my contract. You are entitled to give me any command you wish. I serve you and will obey.”

 

“And that makes me feel really, really fuckin’ sick,” Max says, and then _screams_ as, when he reaches towards the door, it opens itself, and a woman barrels out of it and into him. Max staggers back, into Charon, and Charon grabs his arms to keep him on his feet while the woman falls back to sit down on the floor, gasping for air.

 

“Stay away from me!”

 

“...What?” Max asks, utterly confused, and kneels beside her. “What’s wrong?”

 

“What? Are you...are you one of them?” 

 

“Who’s them?”

 

She covers her face with her hands and sighs. “I suppose it really doesn’t matter if I tell you, does it? I...I used to be a slave. I saw a slaver on this ship...his name is Sister. I think he’s after me.”

 

“I won’t tell. I’d never tell,” he says. “I’m not one of them. I hate them. I’m Max. What's your name?"

 

She seems to relax, looking up at him. “Thank you. My...my name is Mei. I just...I’m so afraid. I can’t go back. I’ll die. I’ll kill myself!”

 

“Whoa, hold on, it’s okay,” Max says, taking her hand, and she whimpers like she's about to cry. "Don't cry...I'll...I'll help! It'll be okay! I'll, um...we can..."

 

He glances back at Charon, and the fingers of one of Charon's hands twitch like he's read Max's mind and wants to reach for his weapon. But Max's stomach twists at the very idea of using Charon to kill someone, of ordering him to do something like that without his consent. He's still shaken at himself giving the ghoul permission before, even if Ahzrukhal had deserved it, and that hadn't even been an order. What if this _Sister_ deserved it, too? But...no. Charon is _not_ the answer. He won't take advantage of the other man like that. It's unthinkable...or at least...un- _do_ -able.

 

Turning back to Mei, he says, "What if I give you some caps? Then you can buy a gun! You'll be able to protect yourself!"

 

Her eyes widen. “You...you would do that? Really?”

 

“Hell yeah.” Max reaches into his bag and pulls out two handfuls of caps. “Here. Take them.”

 

“Oh my God! Thank you!” Mei breathes, taking the caps and shoving them into her pockets. “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll go to the market just before closing. Oh, thank you. You’re a savior. I...I don’t have anything to give you, but I think, maybe, I can trust you with a secret. If you ever go up north, there’s a secret slave hideout called Temple of the Union. They may be of use to you. Here, take this map.”

 

Charon had started drifting once he concluded he wasn't needed, but his attention snaps back to her at the words. He watches her walk off and then looks at Max, who is frowning at him. “What?"

 

“It is nothing,” Charon says, but Max notices his faded blue eyes are fixed on the piece of paper. He quickly marks the place on his Pip-Boy, and then hands it to Charon.

 

“You know about it?”

 

Charon looks down at the paper; it is the same one he had found, but the words are legible.

 

Temple of the Union: where slaves become free men. Free men. _Free_.

 

There's a twinge of pain in his head, threatening to get worse, and he quickly stops thinking about it. He looks to his employer again and says, “I have seen the map before."

 

“Well...we can go there if you want.”

 

“I will go wherever you command.”

 

“Yeah. Well, maybe I’ll have figured out how to actually free you by then. C’mon, it looks like the lab’s this way.”

 

“As you wish,” Charon replies. He gently folds the note and safely tucks it away. Likely, the boy will want to keep him by then, and will have forgotten all about these ridiculous desires to free him. Charon is the best weapon the boy will ever find, that _anyone_ will ever find, and there’s nothing for anyone to gain from his freedom.

 

"Permission to speak?" he asks after a moment, and Max's entire body cringes.

 

"You can do what you want, Charon. You can talk whenever you want!"

 

Charon doesn't continue, and finally Max sighs and nods, reaching up to adjust the bandana that keeps his hair out of his eyes. "Yes. Please do."

 

"You did not have me simply kill this man. Why?"

 

The Wanderer stops, turning to face Charon. "Charon, I'm not...I didn't buy you—sorry, your contract—because I wanted someone to order around or some sick shit like that. I just wanted some help, and I wanted to help you. I _thought_ about it...yeah...but that's...really gross. I'd never really _do_  it."

 

"You allowed me to kill my former employer."

 

"I said you could. I didn't  _order_ you to. It's...I didn't tell you to. I...I think he deserved it...and this guy might deserve it, too...but I can't...just...do that. I can't just...that's not right."

 

"Morals are generally not something you can possess in this world and survive."

 

"Well...maybe. If you _want_ to kill him, you can. I wouldn't stop you. But I'm not gonna _make_ you. That's sick. Okay? I swear. I won't ever make you do what you don't want. Trust me."

 

Charon trusts _no one_ , and he doesn't reply. Max offers him a small smile, then turns and starts to walk again.

 

He does not believe the words, not in the slightest, but they, at least for right now, are something to hold onto.

 

**x**

 

_"Good news from your favorite guy on the radio, boys and girls. Brotherhood spotted that Vault kid alive and well runnin' out of the Museum of History. Whatever he was doin' in Underworld, I'm just glad to hear he's okay. And from what I hear, he looks to have a companion now, one the Brotherhood probably doesn't exactly approve of. But it doesn't matter what they think. Like I said before, ain't nobody can do this alone these days, not unless you got a death wish. I hope you find your dad soon, kid. This is a harsh world, and the way you came up into it, it's amazin' you're still kickin'. This has been Three-Dog, as always, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, let's hear some music..."_


	6. Everything But

Dr. Li is just about the most unpleasant woman Max has ever met. When they arrive in the science lab, she’s yelling at someone, and, initially, he’s too scared to even approach her, until he notices Charon very slowly looking him over. Max takes it as the ghoul trying to determine just how pathetic he really is, and it embarrasses him enough he moves forward. 

 

“Excuse me?” he finally squeaks, tapping her on the shoulder to get her attention, and flinches back as she whirls around to face him so quickly Charon takes a step forward, scowling just as much as she is.

 

“Look, I’ve told you people, this area is off limits to—oh. Oh, my.” Her expression softens. “It’s you. My God, you look so much like him. You’re James's son, aren’t you?”

 

Max breathes again, then tilts his head. “Wh...what? How’d you know that?”

 

“You were too young to remember, I suppose. I worked with your father—”

 

“Please tell me where he is! Please! Is he here?”

 

Something like irritation takes over her features, as if anything she has to say is more important than Max just _finding_ him. “Calm down. He _was_ here, but he left. To the Jefferson Memorial, back to Project Purity.”

 

“What? What...what’s that? Where's that place? Close? Please say close.”

 

She explains the project, briefly, and then where the memorial is, with Max getting more impatient by the second. “He’s—he’s gonna be there? You promise?”

 

“He shouldn’t be. But he hasn’t come back, so...yes. He’ll still be trying to make it work. That's all he could talk about. It's why he left. What are _you_ even doing out of the Vault?”

 

“I had to leave to look for him!"

 

“I was under the impression that is the exact opposite of what he wanted you to do."

 

“It also  _maybe_ had something to do with them trying to fucking  _murder_ me after he left."

 

“Watch your mouth, young man; it is not my fault he has—these— _insane_ illusions of the project working again. He's obsessed.”

 

“And you let him go alone? Do you know how dangerous it is out there?"

 

“We have other, more important things to do. I can’t waste people to run along with him chasing pipe dreams.”

 

“If he’s dead, it’ll be your fault!” Max snaps, turning on his heel and storming off up the stairs. It's not true, but she's the easiest person to blame right now. He knows it'll be _his_ fault, for not being fast enough, and his dad's own fault, for being a goddamn moron. But...the man can't be dead. No. Not after risking everything. He has to be okay. Max needs _answers;_ needs to know his dad still loves him, more than any stupid project, even if he'd abandoned him for it...left him alone to die...but he can't think about that.

 

Charon follows and stays quiet up until Max nearly walks himself right into view of a group of super mutants off to their right. “Stop!” he hisses, grabbing Max’s arm and pulling him out of view, back against the crumbled wall of the nearest building. “There is danger ahead. You must not forge ahead so blindly!”

 

It startles him how out of line he just was, and he quickly releases his employer’s arm and straightens up, prepared for a sharp _keep your fucking opinions to yourself._ His employers don’t want his advice; they want his silence, his obedience, and he's certain this will be what causes the other to at last snap at him.

 

Max, however, simply mutters another apology and wipes his eyes; Charon realizes the boy’s been crying, and he frowns. What the hell is there to be crying about? The boy is so... _weak._ Again he finds himself wondering how Max has lasted this long. It’s _pitiful._ It almost makes him angry. He only just manages to keep from rolling his eyes, and says, “Stay here. I will clear the way.”

 

“I can help.”

 

With tear-blurred eyes leaving him unable to aim? Unlikely. “You have taken on a super mutant before?”

 

“I’ve taken on a behemoth,” Max mutters, and Charon feels genuine surprise at that. “Kinda. With the Lyons’. I just get scared or...whatever.”

 

Scared of battle? Charon can’t remember if he ever felt the same. No; they wouldn’t have allowed such a weakness to slip through their training. He _aches_ for battle, now; the adrenaline rush it gives him is as good as he ever feels. He was made to kill, and that is what he is most skilled at. He might as well enjoy it...when it is towards those who deserve it. “I cannot protect you if I do not know where you are. You must stay here.”

 

“What if you need help?”

 

“I will not. There are three, at most.” He points to the first small wall put up at the entrance to the camp, just large enough to hide behind. “If I stay there, they will come to me, and I will take them out. Do not let them see you.”

 

“Okay,” Max says, reluctantly, and presses himself against the wall. “I’ll stay."

 

Charon grabs his shotgun, nods, and then makes his way to cover. Once he is there, he peers his head over the top, aims, and fires.

 

For several minutes, yelling and constant gunfire are all Max hears. He tries to watch, to be sure he’s ready if Charon needs him, but the gore of the first kill is too much for him. He can’t _stand_ it, it makes him feel sick—it makes him think of the Vault, of Jonas lying a pool of his own blood, of security officers dropping to the ground, dead, bleeding from wounds Max had been forced to inflict to survive. He curls into himself, covering his ears, and wants his _dad—_

 

“It is safe now.” Hands are suddenly on his shoulders, and he looks up at Charon’s blood-spattered form kneeling beside him. Slowly, reality fades back in.

 

“Are you injured?”

 

“N-no...it was just...loud…it was...you’ve got...blood everywhere…I need a second...please...”

 

It’s been less than a day, and Charon has already lost count of how many times he’s considered his employer pathetic. Scared of battle, gunfire, _and_ blood? What next, of guns themselves? Never in his long, long life has he—

 

Max whimpers, softly, and Charon looks him over; he’s even smaller like this, arms wrapped around himself, face buried against his knees. He’s only a child. A stupid, _stupid_ child, but so young, and so new to this harsh world. He’d grown up secure, coddled, with nothing to fear. Charon cannot blame him for not knowing what he has not yet had time to learn, for acting just as anyone would after being thrust from safety into everything but.

 

He finds himself wondering how he had been before the war. He doesn’t recall a thing prior to his training, and even those memories come in painful bits and pieces. Had he felt safe? He hasn’t since. Not once. Not one second has he not either feared for his own life, or the life of his employer. There is no such thing as security anymore. There may never have been any at all, for him.

 

His head aches. He closes his eyes for a moment, sitting against the wall. His employer apparently takes this as an invitation to lean against Charon's shoulder, and Charon quickly pushes him upright again. No. That will absolutely _not_ be happening.

 

Max doesn’t try again. He steadies himself, and his breathing, and finally wipes his nose on his sleeve and clears his throat. “Sorry. I-I’m okay now. Let's go.”

 

Charon nods, relieved; he doesn’t like having time to think. When on his feet, he dutifully offers his hand to Max.

 

The Wanderer takes it, stands, and _thanks_ him; Charon wishes he would _stop_ already. The boy mutters something or other about searching the camp as he goes off, and Charon trails along after, finding two handfuls of shells for his gun in an unlocked ammunition box. Max sits beside another, screwdriver in one hand and bobby pin in the other, and very carefully picks the lock. Charon’s hands are too large to do such work, and usually, a gunshot or two works just as well. But it is fascinating to watch; though Max’s hands still tremble, he has the box open in less than a minute, rewarded with ammunition for his newly found Chinese assault rifle. “Nice.”

 

He notices Charon and smiles up at him. “My best friend taught me. His name was Jonas.” He sighs, taking off his glasses to wipe the lenses clean with a cloth he pulls from his bag; he needs something else to focus on, to do, or else he might start to cry again. “He was...he was really great. But...he...he died. I miss him."

 

Charon is quiet, face as stony as ever, and Max rolls his eyes, getting to his feet. He tosses his old assault rifle to the ground, slings the other over his shoulder, and says, “Thanks for the sympathy.”

 

"If you command—"

 

"Stop. Don't," Max says, and Charon goes very still, as if Max had ordered he stop _everything._ "Shit, sorry. I take that back."

 

Relaxing just slightly, Charon flexes his fingers and turns to fully look at the boy, waiting.

 

Max's gaze remains on the ground for a moment before traveling back up to meet the ghoul's. He opens his mouth to say something, and then he gives an even heavier sigh than before, wordlessly gesturing for Charon to follow him as he starts back towards the memorial.

 

It takes nearly thirty minutes to pick off the mutants outside on the walkways, and finally sneak their way inside, and another thirty to take out the ones inside. By the time they—mostly Charon, but he has to admit the boy can aim—finally clear the area, Charon is leaning heavily against the wall, panting, and Max is swearing to himself, wiping blood that is not his off his cheek and cursing. “Fuck this. God damn it. Fuck this stupid bullshit world."

 

“Are you well?” Charon manages to ask, taking one step towards him and then sinking to one knee. His vision wavers and he has to blink hard several times to clear it. He quickly reloads his weapon in an attempt to cover the moment of weakness.

 

“Yeah, sure. I only threw up once, so that’s something," Max replies. He braces his hands on his knees, grimacing, and tries not to look at the blood-covered floor. “Are you?”

 

“As long as you command me to continue," Charon says, trying to remain steady as he gets to his feet, "I will do so."

 

“Just...just in the Rotunda!” Max says, desperately. “He _has_ to be there.” He takes Charon’s hand when it’s offered, and Charon can feel him shaking again.

 

The first mutant inside is taken out the moment they open the door; the second is silent, hidden, and catches them both by surprise. Max darts up the stairs, not heading Charon’s warning to wait, and runs right into danger. He fumbles with his gun in a panic and doesn’t get it up fast enough to shoot first.

 

Charon is quicker than either of them; he tackles Max to the ground just as the mutant’s hunting rifle goes off. Max cries out, but, with a wince, Charon concludes the bullet definitely missed him. Charon is back on his feet before the mutant can reload, firing the rest of his rounds into its body, and then, when it still tries to get back up, to raise its gun, he drops his weapon and unsheathes his combat knife, launching himself at the mutant and digging the blade into its neck. The monster gurgles, slumps, and finally falls dead. Charon hits the ground hard and lays there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling and trying to breathe.

 

Max calls his name and kneels at his side, eyes wide in concern. “You’re bleeding—”

 

“I am okay,” Charon says at last, dragging himself up and a few feet over to lean against the wall, clamping a hand tightly over his shoulder. Damn bullshit armor. It’s no surprise to him that the bullet went straight through a weak spot; he’s had it for longer than he can remember, and there’s only so many times repairs will do any good. Ah, but of course it slowed just enough to get stuck in him. Wonderful. 

 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Max says, like it's somehow his fault, tossing his bag to the ground and dumping its contents out to search for stimpaks. By the time he finds one, turning back to Charon, the ghoul has pulled one of the buckles of his armor into his mouth and has his _knife_ at the wound, eyes narrowed in concentration.

 

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" Max gasps, and Charon glares at him.

 

"What does it look like?" he growls, barely comprehensible; he adjusts his grip on the knife and digs it in deeper.

 

"Holy Christ, stop! Stop, stop, stop!"

 

Charon grunts, furious, but obeys. 

 

"Just use the stimpak!”

 

Letting the buckle fall from his mouth, Charon presses his palm over the wound again to slow the bleeding. “I cannot until I have removed the bullet.”

 

“You can’t just—let's go back to Rivet City! There's a doctor!"

 

"I am perfectly capable of doing it on my own. Please allow me to do so, so I may administer the stimpak and be able to properly fight again."

 

"You've fuckin' done this before?"

 

"I am older than you know," Charon grits out, "and I have done more than you can imagine. Please. Let me."

 

Max hesitates, then finally nods and takes a step back. "Yeah...I guess. Okay. But I gotta go over there...I can't watch."

 

Charon grunts something in response that Max can't make out and then replaces the buckle, and Max practically cowers halfway down the stairs. He's close enough to hear Charon remain quiet the entire time, panting through the slits remaining of his nose but never once letting out any sound of pain. Max can't handle pain in the first place, and especially not silently—who in the hell slices a bullet out of themselves without making any noise?

 

 _Someone who's used to doing it,_  he thinks, and shudders. 

 

The bullet stayed in one piece, at least; Charon throws it to the floor after a few minutes, and quickly injects the stimpak into the wound, yet again clenching his teeth down onto the leather. Finally, when the pain starts to fade, he spits it out and gasps for breath, leaning his head back.

 

"Are you done?" Max asks after a while of silence, and Charon slowly gets up.

 

"Yes."

 

"That was horrible."

 

"I did not know it was so painful to sit out here," Charon snaps, and then lowers his head just slightly. "I apologize," he says, knowing perfectly well that any other contract holder would have cursed him out and punished him before he could even finish the sentence. He is not supposed to retort. He is not allowed to disrespect. He is meant to be retaliated against when he is wrong. He _must_ be.

 

Max only flushes, as if embarrassed, and rubs at the back of his neck. "Stupid thing to say. Sorry. Are you okay now?"

 

Charon really, _really_ isn't. He is supposed to remain vigilant, alert, despite any and every need he has. There is no excuse to not be at his best, always, and yet as he looks at Max he can see that his sight is shimmering at the edges. After so long of standing he's grown used to inaction, and he's sure the fair amount of blood loss suffered isn't helping. He _needs_ to rest, or else Max could be injured, and that simply cannot happen. But how is he supposed to go about admitting that? He cannot be seen as weak. He is _not_ weak. "I will continue if you command me to." 

 

Max isn't looking at him anymore. He's grabbed several holotapes left out, and looks them over before putting them in his bag. He almost doesn't want to know what's on them...but maybe they'll give him some clue as to where his father has wandered off to now. His body hurts, though, and he's hungry, and he wants nothing more than to lay down for a while. When he looks back at Charon, he notices the blood all down the ghoul's armor, still wet and glistening, and it's definitely enough to make someone feel weak. It just wouldn't be sensible to continue right now. "No. We have to go back. We can't. Not tonight."

 

Charon doesn't dare say anything in case the boy changes his mind. He simply nods and follows Max out of the memorial, hand once again pushed against his shoulder; blood is still sluggishly oozing from the edges left by the knife, and he doesn't have anything to tie around it. As they pass close to the river, he quietly asks, "May I run water over my wound?"

 

Max stops and looks back at him. He seems to replay the words over in his head, trying to make sense of them, and then says, "What?"

 

It's a struggle not to sigh in irritation. "It is irradiated. I am a ghoul. I am healed by radiation far better than stimpaks."

 

"Oh! Oh, yeah! Hang on—" Max opens his bag and takes out a half-empty bottle of water, drinking it as he goes to the edge of the river, the water lapping against the concrete at his feet. He kneels down and fills the bottle, then returns to hand it to Charon. "Is that good? It should be easier like this, right? Otherwise you would've had to, like, swim in it to actually get your shoulder. It's cold as hell."

 

Charon stares at the bottle, then at the boy. He has, by more than one employer before, been shoved straight into whatever body of water was closest if he was injured, once off the  _bridge_  they had been crossing _,_  and now this one cares enough to not only refrain from doing _that_ , but to try and ensure he isn't  _cold._

 

"Yes," he finally says, taking it. "This is...acceptable." He inches the torn clothing at his shoulder down, pouring the water over the wound, and Max watches as the skin and muscle start to slowly knit back together, stopping the bleeding, just as a stimpak would for him.

 

"That's so fucking cool! You're like—you just need _water_ to heal you?"

 

"It is adequate," Charon says, handing the empty bottle back to Max, who refills it again and caps it, placing it back in his bag. 

 

"I'll keep some around, then. C'mon, I saw signs for a hotel upstairs. I'm exhausted."

 

Charon stays right behind him as they walk back to Rivet City. Max cares enough to carry something to help Charon in case he's hurt again, too? Instead of ignoring him until he has to plead to receive something to tend to himself? Surely he doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. He _knows_ he doesn't. Every past employer had known it, too. Why can't Max just be the same? He doesn't know how to deal with this change. There's no reason for him to be given a break, to be given someone  _kind;_ he has done nothing but _destroy_ everything he's ever come across. He doesn't deserve kind. He doesn't deserve _anything_.

 

He tunes out the conversation that goes on between Max and the owner of the hotel once they get there, only knowing that it ends with a sum of caps in her hands and a key in Max's, and then Max looks up at him and asks, "Are you hungry? She said we could get something to eat."

 

Charon is falling behind, mentally. It takes him a second to register he's been spoken to, and another to form even the shortest response of, "Yes."

 

"What do you want?"

 

"Whatever you think is best."

 

Max's smile falters. "Okay...but...what do  _you_ want?"

 

Too tired, Charon simply repeats himself. Max sighs, realizing he's not going to get the answer he wants, and sits down at the bar, ordering two meals from the robot behind it and then gesturing to the chair beside him.

 

Charon takes a seat, but two chairs away from his employer, awkwardly trying to fit his long legs under the counter before simply turning to the side. Max lets out a quiet laugh, but Charon doesn't acknowledge him, scanning the room like they aren't the only ones there and then settling his bleary gaze on the robot as it prepares their food. 

 

"I have a robot," Max says. "At Megaton. His name is Wadsworth. He's cool. We can go there after we find my dad. It's a nice town...after I disarmed the giant bomb in the middle, you know? The people are nice."

 

Charon blinks, very slowly, but otherwise gives no indication he heard at all. 

 

Max taps his knuckles on the counter and sighs. "You sure talk a lot."

 

"If conversation is what you wish, then I shall provide it," Charon says, and then, unsurprisingly, doesn't continue.

 

It's very silent, and Max looks around, uncomfortable. He waits, but still, Charon is quiet, and finally, he clears his throat. "You're not talking."

 

"What do you wish to speak of?"

 

Before Max can even think of a reply, the Mr. Handsy returns and places a bowl in front of both of them, and he sighs in relief. "Thank God." He picks up his spoon, takes one bite of the stew, and then turns to stare over at Charon, who has completely ignored his own utensil and lifted the bowl to his mouth, loudly slurping the contents down with a desperation that unsettles Max. He's been very hungry before, of course, but this...it's different. It reminds him of the way he's seen feral dogs, all skin and bone, tearing into whatever meal they've managed to find before anything else can come by and steal it from them. He looks Charon up and down; he's never really noticed how thin the other is, or considered it at all until now, and certainly wouldn't have thought it was from...

 

Charon notices Max's gaze and quickly puts the bowl down again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yes?"

 

"Nothing...I didn't say anything." Max says, quietly, turning back to his own food, but he suddenly doesn't feel very much like eating anymore as he understands Charon isn't just hungry, he's _starving_. He waits until Charon is done, which doesn't take but a minute, and then asks, "Want some more?"

 

There's only the slightest hesitation before Charon says, "It is unnecessary." 

 

"I didn't ask...how long has it been since you ate? Before just now?"

 

Slightly taken aback, it takes another moment for Charon to answer. "...Five days."

 

"Christ," Max says, waving the robot over again and ordering two more bowls. "That's—that's really not good. That's...fuck."

 

"I have gone longer," Charon offers, like that's supposed to make it better, and Max scowls. 

 

"That's even worse! What the hell? _God_ , I'm glad you killed that fucker. Is that like...normal for you?"

 

"...My employers do not need to waste their supplies on me."

 

"So, yes. Jesus. What the _hell?_ Why are all the people you've been with such  _assholes?"_

 

Charon doesn't reply, and Max doesn't say anything else; he stirs his own food while Charon easily downs the other bowls. This time when Charon sits back, he finds that, for once, he's content, almost warm. He can't remember the last time he ate until he was full, or was given enough food to do so; it's been long enough that he didn't remember what it felt like until now. Just as foreign is the feeling of _gratitude_ afterwards, and he quietly, honestly says, "Thank you."

 

"You shouldn't have to thank me for letting you eat," Max mutters, sliding off the stool and gesturing for Charon to follow him to their room. Charon does, in a satisfied sort of daze, and when the door closes behind them Max gestures at the bed, shrugging his bag off and sitting in the single chair against the wall. "You need to sleep."

 

Charon doesn’t protest. He simply asks, “Where?”

 

Max finally looks up from his feet. “What? On the bed.”

 

A pause, and then: “It is your bed. I shall sleep on the floor.”

 

Max huffs, crossing his arms. “No, you _won’t_. Sleep on the bed.”

 

Something flickers in Charon’s eyes, but it’s gone before Max can figure it out, and he quickly adds, "I mean...if you want. Sorry. What's...what's wrong with it? Don't you want to?”

 

“It is a kind offer, but I do not mind the floor.”

 

“Well, _I_ mind. Go. Lay down. You’re not sleeping on floor, end of story.”

 

Charon glances at the bed, then at Max, and then says, “As you command.” He removes his shotgun and rests it against the wall beside the bed, then lays so close to the edge that half of him is nearly falling off. He’s much too large for it, and his legs hang off the end, and he doesn’t at all look comfortable as Max watches him shift around, the springs of the mattress protesting loudly under his weight.

 

“Okay, um...maybe they have a bigger bed somewhere?" Max suggests, taking off his glasses to clean them again. “I just...just...you can't sleep on the floor. That's not fair. I...I want you to be comfortable, you know? They...they probably didn't care, did they? But I'm not gonna be like them. I swear! I'm..."

 

He trails off, frowning; it’s quiet now, he realizes, putting his glasses back on. Charon is curled onto his side, eyes closed, with one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, absolutely still.

 

A little worried, because it's been thirty seconds at _most_ , Max stands and goes to the ghoul’s side. “...Hello?”

 

Charon doesn’t even _twitch_. Only now does Max remember how Charon had been falling asleep on his feet in Underworld, and he curses himself. He’d seen Charon misplace his steps more than once, and he had forced the other to keep going, too caught up in finding his father, his stupid father, a father that left him alone. He'd done what probably every single 'employer' Charon had ever had did—ignored him.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, sighing, and lays down on the other side of the bed. Charon has positioned himself to take up as little space as possible (which is still quite a lot, given his size), but Max keeps his distance. He imagines the other is still waiting for some sort of punishment that will _never_ be coming, and he doesn’t want to make it worse. There’s no reason for Charon to trust him, _yet,_ but Max wants to change that.

 

He looks over at Charon, really noticing just how bad his armor is. He will, quite obviously, need it replaced completely before they travel again. What else could he need? Ahzrukhal had deprived him of sleep, _starved_ him—probably had never spent a single cap on Charon’s behalf. He’ll need new clothes, then, right? And definitely new shoes. Max resolves to sell off what he doesn't need in his bag tomorrow, and use the caps towards Charon. If that doesn't at least _slightly_ convince him to trust Max...well, it has to! If no other employer had ever cared for him, then Max will simply have to be the first.

 

He nods, pleased, and pulls the blanket over himself. It's actually a little cold in here...damn. Can ghouls get cold? He gets up again and returns to Charon's side. Charon still hasn’t moved, and Max can see it's the first time his face isn't creased into a frown. He looks...normal, maybe even comfortable. For someone so terrifying, for a weapon, Charon is still human. Max feels awful that he's only just realizing it. 

 

Carefully, he tugs the blanket out from under Charon’s feet and lays it over him. Then, he clicks the lights off and lays back down, closing his eyes and finally falling asleep to the quiet, steady sound of Charon's breathing.

 

**x**

 

_"Another news break with Three-Dog, here. Seems that the Enclave is gettin' a little more active than usual. Don't know why, and if I'm bein honest, I don't really want to. Whatever it is, it ain't good. Apparently, there's been sightings of their Vertibirds all over the skies, lately. Where the hell are they going? Does anyone know? If you do, let us know so we can all stay the fuck away from there. Careful, kiddies. They ain't a force to be messed with. Keep safe. Until next time, this has been Three-Dog, givin' you the news, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, let's get a little music..."_


	7. For Good or Ill

Charon jerks upright with a gasp, eyes wide in the darkness of the hotel room, and he is afraid. Screams echo in his ears, and he has to take a minute to discern the past from the present, a nightmare from reality. He puts a hand flat against his chest, feeling his heart pounding even through his armor, and is relieved to find he is alone. No employer was ever _pleased_ to wake up to him panting raggedly, or worse, involuntarily letting out a panicked cry, and would rightfully punish him for it. He only wishes the states of fear he too often falls into, along with the nightmares, were something that discipline could get rid of, that they could be conditioned out of him the way everything else had been. He was never supposed to feel _scared,_ or experience guilt, or regret, or _empathy_. Everything that he has been forced to do, that others have done to him, should _not_ be constantly on his mind. He isn't supposed to think, he is supposed to kill, and react, and—

 

There are footsteps in the hall outside, and the door opens, and his gun is in his hands before his eyes have even adjusted, cocked and aimed at—

 

The Wanderer gives a tiny yelp, putting his hands up. “It’s me! It’s me!”

 

Charon blinks and quickly puts his gun down. Simply announcing that it was his employer instead of an enemy is a much kinder way to stop him than he’s used to, which would be something more like, _Point that gun at me again and I'll shove it up your ass, contract be damned._

 

“I apologize,” he says, and Max gives a nervous laugh, leaning against the wall.

 

“That’s...that’s fine. Holy shit.”

 

Charon closes his mouth to hopefully silence his still too-quick breaths. His fingers curl against the blanket still over him, and...he doesn’t recall...odd. He pulls it off and looks at the boy. “Are you in need of something?”

 

“Uh, no? I was coming to check on you. Again. You’ve been out for, like, sixteen hours. I was kind of starting to think you might actually be dead.”

 

That's _much_ too long, but given how rarely sleep was given to him, and how often it was cut off within just a few hours whenever it _was_ permitted, it isn’t surprising. What _is_ surprising, is the fact his employer had left him undisturbed as long as that. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands; his legs don’t shake, and he doesn’t feel at all unbalanced, and it’s a relief. “I apologize.”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Max says, smiling a bit sadly. The last two times he’d poked his head in, he’d found Charon twisted up in the sheets, mumbling to himself and groaning, but Max decides not to mention it, or even ask if the other is feeling better than yesterday. Absolutely nothing about Charon indicates that he would react well to that. "It’s...really gross here, but there're some nice people. Like, maybe three. I wasn’t gonna wake you up, but...I do kinda wanna leave as soon as we can...”

 

To care more about Charon’s needs than his own wants? That’s… “You should have woke me.”

 

“For the twentieth time, I’m not an asshole,” he says, and Charon’s eyes narrow.

 

“What? I’m not! Oh, that reminds me! Guess what?” The boy actually waits for a response, and when Charon only stares, waiting, Max sighs. “You’re no fun. I sold a bunch of junk in my bag, and I’ve got the caps to get you new clothes! Also, I got you a bag. For, you know...stuff. I dunno."

 

Charon pauses, confused. Why would anyone waste caps on him? “I require nothing.”

 

Max regards Charon in the utmost annoyance. “Please. Yeah, you do. New armor, too. But you gotta go with me so they can measure you. You’re...very…tall. Like, the tallest person I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s a little scary.”

 

Charon thinks, maybe, he understands; Max is trying to get on his good side. Quite unfortunately for Max, though, Charon doesn't _have_ one. “I do not require gifts.”

 

“They’re not _gifts_ , and you are _coming down there_ with me. I’m not gonna have you die because you have shit armor. C’mon, please?”

 

Charon sighs, but, given what had happened, if new armor is being offered, it would be foolish to refuse. It has never been provided by anyone but him before, and he's sure it never will be again. “I will do as you command.”

 

“You’ll feel so much better!” Max says, cheerfully clapping his hands together, like he’s genuinely happy to be wasting his money on a ghoul, on his servant that deserves nothing, _less_ than nothing.

 

“I mean, really, look at this,” the boy continues, rolling his eyes, reaching out to Charon’s armor, and Charon catches Max’s wrist as if he had swung at him, pulling Max's hand down and away.

 

Max looks a bit terrified, suddenly, and leans back. “Let go!” he demands, curling his arms around himself when Charon obeys. “What the hell was that for?”

 

“I apologize,” Charon says, but he doesn’t mean it. He did not hurt his employer, so there is nothing to be sorry about. Startled him, probably, but maybe now the stupid child will keep his damn hands to _himself_. “It was instinctual.”

 

Max shoves his hands in his pockets, biting his lip. “Charon...you know I’m not gonna hit you, right?”

 

“Physical violence invalidates the contract.”

 

“Oh. It—it does?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“...What counts as violence?” Max asks, and Charon’s eyes get a faraway look in them, as if he is reading something only he can see.

 

“You cannot personally endanger my life. You may not injure me in a way that leaves a visible mark, either from myself or from you. You cannot order me to kill myself or to stay still while someone else kills or injures me. Invalidation of the contract leaves me to find another to gain ownership of it.”

 

“Well, shit. But...at least they never really _hurt_ you, right?”

 

Charon scoffs. He doesn't know how the boy came to that conclusion; he has had plenty of people hurt him. It had either been for failing to protect them, something he had to deal with, or from a random loss of temper, a mistake they hadn’t lived to make again. Not only that, but plenty of people had twisted the too-vague terms to their advantage, ordered him to do what he didn’t want, and hurt him in ways he was helpless to defend himself against, for they didn't directly count as ‘violence', or...they had never left a visible mark. The contract had been made when he was human, and still had skin to bruise. 

 

But there's no reason for him to admit any of this, to give an _excuse_ to be hurt, so he doesn't. He never does, not until he has to, not until he fails. Why would he ever _give_ his employers loopholes? He lives in enough fear already. He had known Ahzrukhal would not break the contract, and maybe two or three others over the years, but every other employment was spent under the constant anxiety and trepidation of when the contract would be voided. It could be just a blow, or it could be an attempt on his life. The tempers of his employers were never anything less than frag mines waiting to go off if he even breathed too loudly, and sometimes, allowed punishments simply were not good enough for them.

 

‘Allowed’ punishments, or, the ones Charon couldn’t say anything about because the contract didn’t say anything about them. He has tried for over a century to avoid certain phrases that had been conditioned into him, to re-word them just slightly. Replace _injure_ with _harm_ , to encompass anything that could be thought of; change _physical violence_ to anything abusive or immoral at all, anything, _anything_ ; add _you may not take advantage of your authority, of my obedience...of me._ He has tried to manipulate the contract in his favor like so many have done before, but his training was too thorough, the contract too inescapable. It does not allow him to bother with his own concerns, yet leaves employers free to interpret the limits at his expense. 

 

“I was really worried that asshole beat you or something.”

 

Charon sneers down at the boy, disgusted at the relief in his voice. As if _beatings_ were somehow the only thing one could do to hurt him. Charon would have _preferred_ such simple pain over every other method they’d found to use. No, Ahzrukhal had never beat him, but the one time a drunk had managed to bloody Ahzrukhal's nose before Charon could stop it, the first and only time Charon had failed him, he had broken two of Charon's fingers with a grin on his face and a promise to make Charon more miserable than anyone ever had before if it happened again.

 

And to the point of sometimes throwing himself in front of Ahzrukhal to take a hit or to protect him from getting struck with a thrown bottle, Charon had _made sure_ it never happened again, because the very possibility of being made any more miserable than he was with the employer before Ahzrukhal was more terrifying than Charon could handle.

 

He takes a breath, looks away, and says, “If you have no further questions, then we should move on.”

 

“I have a _lot_ of questions,” Max says, and Charon heaves a sigh.

 

“Then you may ask them.”

 

“About your contract…”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

Charon tilts his head back a bit and sighs again in response.

 

“What if I, like, ripped it up? Or burned it? Would that free you?"

 

Charon’s fingers twitch at the very suggestion, and his eyes are immediately back on the boy. That is the only thing he wants, and the only thing he cannot ever have. "I would be forced to terminate you before you could destroy it," he replies.

 

"What? What the fuck? I thought you're supposed to protect me!"

 

"Above all else, I must keep my contract safe. I am nothing without it. I am to terminate myself if it is ever destroyed."

 

"Jesus. Alright. Forget I said that. Come on, there's seriously no way to get you out of it?"

 

"I am bound to serve whoever holds my contract for as long as I live."

 

Max looks like he might need to sit down for a minute. "Well. That's shit. I’ll have to think of something else.”

 

"There is no need to bother yourself with meaningless thoughts."

 

"It's not meaningless! Don't you want to be free?"

 

Charon's breath catches in his throat. For a second time, he has no response. Unlike Ahzrukhal, however, Max actually waits for an answer.

 

"I require nothing," he says finally, and Max shakes his head.

 

"That's not what I asked. If there's a way to free you—"

 

"There simply is not."

 

"Don't you want me to try? You don't fucking like being a slave, do you?"

 

"I am not a slave."

 

Max glares, and this time demands, "Do you want to be free?"

 

It's a direct question, just the same as an order; it is something Charon cannot ignore or avoid. He exhales slowly, then finally says, "I do not know."

 

"How do you not know?"

 

Charon meets his eyes for just a moment, unflinching. "I do not remember what it is like."

 

Max takes a step back and looks at the ground. "How...how old are you?"

 

"I do not recall that, either. I know I was there when the bombs dropped, but I do not recall much else. I was young. Perhaps twenty. I have aged, but I could not tell you how much.”

 

"Two hundred years? You're—is that how long you've had this contract?"

 

Charon's mouth is dry, and he cannot swallow. "Yes."

 

"You don’t remember before the war?"

 

"No. Nothing before my training, and hardly that."

 

"Your tr—oh God. What does that mean? Ahzrukhal said—said you were brainwashed, what did they—?”

 

Charon’s breath trembles on his next inhale, too audibly. “I do not wish to speak of it anymore unless that is your order.”

 

Max watches him and realizes he shouldn’t have spoken at all. What kind of person asks about something like that anyway? “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t have...I’m sorry. We should just go...I’m sorry.”

 

Not trusting himself to speak, Charon only nods in agreement, quietly following Max down the hall. His hands are clenched at his sides, arms rigid, and he has the vague onset of a headache. Freedom is not an option he has ever been permitted, nor is it one he ever will be. No matter what Max thinks of, there is simply no getting around it. He will be property, a tool, a weapon, a _slave_ until the day he is finally, finally put out of his miserable existence.

 

He tries to steady his breaths again and find something else to focus on, avoiding the irritating glares he gets from those who pass them and instead looking down at Max, at the amber curls on his head, at how he is wringing his hands nervously, casting glance after glance back at Charon like he really, truly cares how his employee feels.

 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Max finally murmurs when they’re at the door to the market, turning to face Charon, and Charon tilts his head down. He simply isn’t comfortable with the continuous eye-contact Max has been giving and expecting; there have been very few employers who even allowed such a thing. It set off their tempers, challenged their dominance over him, and was, simply put, dangerous.

 

“You are entitled to speak as you wish regardless of my personal feelings," Charon says, "but I can assure you that I have very few.”

 

“Feelings?” Max asks, and Charon gives a simple nod in response.

 

“That’s…” With a slow breath out, Max doesn’t continue. There’s no point; whatever Charon says, Max knows he can at least feel distressed, because that’s all he’s perceived the ghoul to be since he purchased the contract, and it had been even stronger just minutes prior during talk of the past. And Charon won’t even look at him unless he absolutely has to...the distrust is almost painful.

 

But that’s probably because Max is lonely; there’s no way this contractually obligated bodyguard will ever be his friend, and the idea that he’s maybe trying to make that happen is just sad.

 

He opens the door finally and leads Charon down the steps into the market. It’s a far more stressful experience than it had been last time, for him; instead of a few kind waves, they—Charon _—_ aregetting glares and disgusted expressions as they walk.

 

“Do I really look that bad?” he asks, looking up at Charon, trying to lighten the mood, only Charon just blankly meets his gaze.

 

“It...it was a joke. I was joking.”

 

“Ah. Very amusing,” Charon says, without any hint of amusement at all.

 

“Can’t you smile? Just a little?”

 

Charon turns his face the other way, and his voice has gone very cold again as he says, “No.”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“I serve you for good or ill,” Charon replies, monotone, looking ahead, and Max blinks. Ah. So he doesn’t want to talk anymore. Max is an idiot, goddamnit, trying to converse with him so continuously...sad, sad, sad.

 

He leads Charon over to the clothing tent and waves at the man behind the counter. The man pales at the sight of Charon, dropping his clipboard and taking a step back. “Uh—”

 

“This is who I was telling you needed new armor, see?” Max says, smiling, and the man trembles slightly.

 

“When we were speaking,” the man finally manages, shakily, “you didn’t tell me he was a...a—”

 

“A person?” Max offers.

 

“A ghoul.”

 

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

 

“Oh, it matters…”

 

“Why?”

 

“I do not require anything,” Charon says again, turning around. “This is unnecessary.”

 

“No, wait,” Max says, putting his hands on his hips and glaring at the shopkeeper while Charon sighs heavily.

 

“You said you’d help! C’mon, I’ll pay you extra!”

 

“How much extra?”

 

“Twenty caps.”

 

“Make it fifty.”

 

Max winces, fidgeting uncomfortably. Negotiation is not his forte, but fifty caps would really be pushing it. He’s still broke, he just has the means to buy Charon a few things this one time. “...Thirty-five?”

 

“Fifty, or leave.”

 

 _Damn._ “Fine, sure, whatever. Just please help, okay?”

 

The man doesn’t even seem to consider it until the bribe is in his hands, and he watches Charon closely as he places the caps into the register behind him. “Fine. But I don’t want to see him back here again after this.”

 

Max beams, looking up at Charon as if expecting him to be as happy. Charon’s eyes are instead on the man as he comes to Charon’s side with a tape measure. Charon lets out a low growl, and the man jerks back.

 

“If I die,” he begins, and Max sighs.

 

“You won’t! God! He just needs armor! He’s nice!”

 

“Nice,” the man scoffs, narrowing his eyes as he glares up at Charon. Then, reluctantly, he sighs and tries to wrap the tape around Charon’s chest, jumping when Charon pulls away.

 

“I do not require—”

 

“Just stay still!” Max says, and Charon instantly freezes.

 

Max nearly takes back the command, because for a moment he thinks Charon almost looks a bit panicked, but then he blinks and the ghoul’s face is as impassive as always, and he can’t be sure he saw correctly. It certainly doesn’t feel right, but he can apologize later. It had been his fault Charon had gotten injured before, and he’s determined to make sure it doesn’t happen again despite Charon fighting him on it, whatever his stupid reasoning was.

 

He watches as the man measures Charon, noting just how tense Charon is, and wonders if Charon thinks the man is going to hit him, too. For someone who has a contract prohibiting violence, he certainly seems to expect it a lot. Quietly, Max asks, “Are you okay?”

 

“Not really,” the shopkeeper replies, and Max glares at him.

 

“Not you. Charon.”

 

“That's its name?”

 

“It? What's wrong with you? Just shut up and do your job!”

 

Charon almost feels amused. Mostly, it’s sad; he doesn't need a smoothskin’s sympathy, and certainly not the disgustingly false sympathy of an employer. “I am.”

 

The man wraps the tape tight around Charon’s waist, hands coming together at his front, and Charon has to really fight not to flinch back or reach for his gun, growling again.

 

“Fuckin’ feral,” the man mutters under his breath. “How tall are you?”

 

Charon looks to Max for approval. The boy makes a gesture for him to answer, and he finally says, “I believe I am around seven feet. I am uncertain."

 

“You can help me reach everything I never could,” Max says, with the same stupid looking expression he made the last time he tried to make a ‘joke’, and Charon makes a point to look away. He just wants the shopkeeper away from him, _now_ , because he is unable to move, and therefore far too susceptible to any attack, not to mention how he is unable to properly defend his employer—

 

He takes a deep breath, relieved, when the man finally goes back to his desk, writing on a clipboard and murmuring to himself.

 

“He’s good with this stuff, at least,” Max says, nodding. “I got new clothes from him, too. Did you see?” He flattens his new shirt against him and tugs the sleeves down over his hands. “It’s blue. I like blue. It’s my favorite color.”

 

Charon looks down at him, void of expression, and says nothing. He had noticed; he just doesn't care. Max clears his throat, awkwardly, and looks away, and Charon can think of nothing but how _innocent_ the boy is. A favorite color? Who still has time to think about that sort of thing anymore?

 

He regards Max closely, able to see him as clearly as he ever will in the harsh market lighting. The boy is cleaner than the night before, no longer caked in blood and sand and dirt; bathing is just another thing that tells him apart from anyone else in the Wasteland. Generally, no one found it a particularly enjoyable feat to wade into the ice cold water of the Potomac, and finding anything that even mildly resembled soap was a usually fruitless effort. 

 

Now visible is the path of freckles that line the boy's cheeks and nose just under his glasses; other than that, there’s no evidence Max has ever spent a day in the sun. He looks just as he would have coming out of the Vault, sheltered in shadow since his birth, an almost luminous shade of ivory.

 

Because of it, Max will without question get sick from the heat and burnt much quicker than anyone else used to the sun. He’ll need to rest more often, stay in the shade when he can, and it will not be an easy task to travel the Wasteland. It's nothing but a hindrance, and all in all, Max is not a particularly interesting sight, but Charon, for whatever reason, has yet to look away when Max meets his gaze again.

 

“What?” the boy asks, smoothing down his shirt. “It’s nice, right?”

 

Charon blinks. Max is...looking for a compliment? Surely he didn’t hear that right. But Max is still looking up at him, almost expectantly, and Charon has absolutely no idea how to respond. How low are Max’s standards of himself that he’s decided to turn to a creature like his new employee for attention?

 

“I think it is if you do,” Charon finally says, and Max almost looks offended, huffing and stepping out of Charon’s line of vision. It’s not his job to do such a weak thing as to be kind. _Is it nice—_ what a goddamn stupid question. He’ll be relieved when Max becomes an adult, or at least starts to act like one.

 

He remains still, as ordered, watching residents throw appalled glances in his direction as they pass, until, eventually, Max comes back into his line of sight, slowly, regret creasing lines into his forehead. “Sorry. You can move. Oh God, I’m sorry.”

 

Breathing out slowly, Charon doesn’t bother with a reply. As unnecessary as the apologies are, there seems to be no use in reminding the boy of it. Eventually, he’ll learn, the Wasteland will harden him, and he will become one and the same with the others. Charon can’t say he’ll be disappointed.

 

Soon, they are walking back to the room, with Max chattering on about something, and Charon with a new set of armor, a pair of clothes, underwear, and boots as similar as he could hope to get to the ones he has. They are...greatly appreciated. More so than he will ever be able to communicate. He doesn’t consider them his own, though; Max purchased them, and Max can take them away just as quickly. In fact, everything he has is his employer’s... _he_ is his employer’s, despite refusing to verbally acknowledge the awful fact. He can tell his employers time and time again that he is not their property, that they cannot do whatever they want to him, and he has, but that doesn’t mean he believes it. His employers certainly never have. Max is trying to gain his trust, he knows, but his employers do not deserve what he is incapable of giving, anyways. They liked to harm him once his guard was down, he learned, so he simply doesn’t let that happen anymore.

 

He is, however, grateful, he realizes, as Max plops down on the bed and sighs, and he quickly says, “Thank you.”

 

Of course, Max doesn't know that last night and now are they only times he has said it and meant it in over a hundred years. The boy looks over at him with a smile, putting an arm behind his head. “You’re welcome! You'll be a little safer now.”

 

Without thinking, Charon murmurs, “Safer?”

 

“Uh…yeah? Like, not having to cut bullets out? Hopefully not getting shot at all? I try to avoid fighting. Running is more...my speed.” He lets out a laugh so sharp and shrill that it echoes off the walls and then turns pink in embarrassment, and Charon stares at him.

 

“That was the best joke I ever made, you fuckin’ jerk,” Max says, tossing his pillow at Charon and watching him still not react at all. “I'll make you smile one day. I will.”

 

Charon closes his eyes for a moment; he just wants this game to end.

 

“Anyway…” Max says, thankfully changing the subject. “Those holotapes I found? I listened to them. My dad’s out west, in another vault, I guess. It’s hidden inside a garage, and…” He sighs. “It’s somewhere by Evergreen Mills. You heard about that shit on the radio? There’s like a billion raiders there.”

 

“You have no need to worry about combat, I shall—”

 

“You can’t take on that many people, okay? You got shot by one fuckin’ mutant. I need to be able to help and not...like...well, not get scared!”

 

“He nearly shot you instead,” Charon says. “You—” He cuts off and tilts his head down.

 

“What?”

 

“With your permission,” Charon murmurs, carefully, “I will speak my mind on this subject.”

 

Max gives him a quick nod, but Charon is absolutely sure the boy is not going to like what he has to say. Still, he is allowed to, so he does.

 

“You have adequate aim, but your reflexes are slow. You cower when you should be reloading. You do not focus only on your target and instead look to everything around you. You spend too much time hesitating in uncertainty when you should have already fired, and it wastes time to adjust your aim again. You are unsteady on your feet, and you shake, and you lack confidence, and you do not hold your weapons correctly. Forgive me,” he finishes with, lowering his head again, breathing hard. Oh, what an absolute thrill it had been to say exactly what he wanted to…

 

Max is quiet for a minute, thoroughly stunned. “Oh.”

 

Charon waits for a counterattack, but Max doesn’t continue. He just lays there, looking like Charon has just kicked him.

 

“I apologize. You permitted me to—”

 

“No, I...I did. I know I did. That’s fine. I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s...I’m just...” He groans, tossing his arm over his eyes. “What the hell am I gonna do? I played with a BB gun! That’s my entire experience with guns! I don’t like killing people! I don’t like blood! I’m scared! I’m the worst person to rescue anyone, but I have to! Fuck! I’m gonna get you killed, and me! And my dad! I’m fuckin’ useless!”

 

“If you wish, and would allow me, I would show you what I believe would help.”

 

Max sits up again, a wide grin spreading across his face. “R-really? You would? Holy shit! Yes, yes, yes! I didn’t even think of that! Yes! Please!”

 

Startled at how eager the boy is to listen to his opinion, Charon nods. “If you wish, it would be better to do so outside.”

 

Max nods and jumps to his feet, putting on his armor as quickly as he can and then opening the door. “Here, wait—you gotta change. I’ll be down there, the room with the robot. Then we can eat, and then you can show me stuff! This’ll be great!” He skips off, and Charon is unsettled, closing the door again and sitting on the bed, rubbing his face. His employer is exhausting.

 

As much as he knows he protested, he has to admit he is genuinely relieved to have armor that is not riddled with tears and shitty sewing jobs. It’s not perfect, but the small repairs he could make can be done easily, and will not be life threatening or even dangerous to ignore for a while. One thank you was hardly enough. And to be getting another meal so soon after the last? At least he is, for now, able to take advantage of being treated better than ever before, and he quickly changes, worried that, if he takes too long, he’ll miss the opportunity.

 

But Max is waiting patiently for him next door, still grinning, and has already ordered for them both. His new clothing fits perfectly, the armor snug and sturdy and protective around him, and as he sits down in front of a plate of warm food, Charon might, just for a few minutes, feel okay.

 

**x**

 

_"What's up, kiddies? It's Three Dog here again with the only good radio show on the air. I'm sure ain't no one like to listen to Mr. Sir President repeat the same shit over and over again, right? Seriously, what's up with that guy's voice? It's creepy as hell. Anyway, there's been some sightin's of those Talon Company death squad bastards roamin' around, lookin' as thirsty for blood as always. Don't know who they're huntin' now, but I'd keep your eyes open just in case. Maybe they'll all run into the Enclave and we can sit back and watch 'em fight it out, huh? Ah, a guy can dream. Till next time, this has been Three Dog, bringin' you the news, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some music..."_


	8. Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! :)

Less than a half hour later, they are standing beside the metro entrance near Rivet City, and Max is nearly bouncing on his heels in excitement while Charon wanders around the area, making sure they are alone. Charon’s skills are beyond what he could ever hope to have, two _centuries_ beyond, but he is surely the best candidate to improve Max’s own skills, right? To even be _half_ as good as Charon would be enough. How proud his dad would be, for him coming to the rescue, for taking care of himself, for not being the incapable child left back in the Vault. How wrong everyone who had called him weak would be, then.

 

“Okay! Teach me!” he says, grinning, once Charon returns to his side, and Charon doesn’t respond immediately, still glancing around with narrowed eyes, holding his weapon as if he’s detected a threat, yet they are still unbothered. His thumb is absentmindedly rubbing the side of the weapon, the only sign of anxiety he’s shown, and then finally he takes a breath and slings it over his back again, turning to face Max. They are not safe out in the open like this, and he doesn’t like it. He especially doesn’t like how Max is looking at him, as if Charon has all the answers he needs.

 

“It is nothing you will learn immediately,” he says at length. “You will need to practice.”

 

“Maybe I’ll be a natural.” Max extends his arms and cracks his knuckles, and Charon rolls his eyes. There’s not a thing in the world Max could do to fool anyone into looking past his fragile appearance, to see anything threatening at all.

 

“You are not. It is something learned. No one is—”

 

“Fine, just _teach_ me already! Come on! Then I can help you out!”

 

Charon moves immediately at the order, reaching for the boy’s rifle as he hides his displeasure at the insinuation that he _needs_ help. He’s perfectly capable of carrying out his objective until dismissed and always has been. “As you wish.” He unloads it and tucks the magazine into his pocket before handing it back.

 

“Why’d you—”

 

“I do not care to be shot again,” Charon says, and then gestures. “Hold it as you would if I were an enemy.”

 

Max hesitates a moment, clear concern written on his features, and Charon doesn’t understand why he checks the gun again, just to be _sure_ it’s unloaded, before finally aiming it at Charon. Maybe he’s still thinking about the terms of the contract Charon had shared earlier; making sure he doesn’t break the rules just _yet_. Or maybe, for once, Charon has an employer that wouldn't jump on the chance to shoot him. There was generally no way to prove a stray shot during battle  _wasn't_ just friendly fire, but Charon isn't stupid. It hadn't happened often, but 'accidents' shouldn't end with employers watching in a sick, obvious pleasure as Charon patched himself up. 

 

Charon focuses on the task at hand, looking Max over and clicking his tongue, pulling the gun up a bit more. Then, he circles behind Max and uses his foot to nudge Max’s ankle. “Your legs are too close together. You are unbalanced. Align your feet with your shoulders. Straighten your back. And take your finger off the trigger. Do not touch it unless you are going to fire.”

 

“It’s not even loaded,” Max mumbles, frowning, lowering the weapon just a bit as he adjusts his footing.

 

“Keep it raised.”

 

“But my arms hurt…”

 

“Would you lower it in battle?”

 

“No,” Max finally sighs, wincing and lifting it again.

 

“Your grip is not close enough to the handguard.”

 

“What the hell is that?”

 

Charon taps it and gestures to Max’s hand. “You are holding it too far down the forestock. It is causing your hold to be shakier than it already is. Put your hand here.” He wraps his hand around the proper place to demonstrate, and Max pulls his hand to position just as Charon’s is moving away, their fingers brushing for the briefest of moments.

 

Charon had watched it happen and therefore doesn’t really startle, but is surprised by the fact that _Max_ doesn’t flinch, as if he _hasn’t_ just touched something disgusting. He acts like nothing has happened at all, looking up at Charon, patiently waiting for the next instruction. Of course...he’s taken Charon hand a few times before, to get up, but, this touch hadn’t been unavoidable, hadn’t been to help. It had just...happened, and still, Max doesn’t seem to care. Once again Charon is reminded just how _soft_ the boy’s hands are, and...and he wants Max to be telling the truth. He doesn't want to be hurt by them. But he's so certain he _will_ be...

 

“Like this, right?”

 

Charon clears his throat and quickly nods, pushing the end of the rifle back against Max.

 

“It goes here,” he says, gently tapping between Max’s shoulder and the muscle of his chest. “Not on your shoulder. Not at your collarbone. Here.”

 

“All rifles?”

 

“Any weapon that rests against you.”

 

“Okay. Can I actually try to shoot now?”

 

“Keep holding it up,” Charon says, going down the metro steps to rummage through the trash can there.

 

“If you want my arms to hurt so bad, just say so. I’ll do push-ups or something.”

 

Charon sighs, placing two empty bottles and an old can on the barrier above the stairs, several feet away from each other. “No,” he says, quietly, returning to Max’s side, and again pulls the gun up. Max is so very weak; he can’t even keep the weapon straight. They would no doubt be helpful, but he is not in the position to give orders...and that isn’t one he would ever give, anyway.

 

He hands the magazine back to Max and stands behind him as he loads it, and Max quirks an eyebrow.

 

“I’m not gonna shoot you, you know.”

 

“Not if I am here,” Charon agrees, and points at the targets.

 

Max takes a breath and shoots at the can, missing, and swears. “They’re...too far away.”

 

“No. You are shaking again.”

 

“Because my arms hurt!”

 

“Exhale and fire before you inhale again,” Charon says. “And straighten up.”

 

Max heaves out an irritated breath and fires again, chipping off a piece of concrete. “I was aiming fine last night!”

 

"When your targets were closer,” Charon says, crossing his arms, “and you were overcome with adrenaline. It only takes one missed shot to be killed that close.”

 

“That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes. But you asked to learn, and I am teaching. Shall I stop?”

 

“I...no. No. You’re right. Sorry. What do I do?”

 

“You must _straighten up._ ”

 

“I already am!”

 

“You are not. May I show you?”

 

Huffing, Max rolls his eyes and nods, and Charon puts one hand on Max’s shoulder, using the other to push against his lower back, holding him in the correct position and out of the constant slump he walks around in. Max is surprised to find Charon’s hands are warm, warmer than he would have expected from someone who looks  _dead,_ but it isn’t unpleasant. In fact, he finds himself feeling far steadier than before.

 

Charon notes a vague shiver that goes through the boy at his touch, and he almost pulls away, positive it’s a reaction of disgust. But Max doesn’t order him to get back, so he reluctantly stays. “Focus only on your targets, one at a time.”

 

Max slowly breathes out and squeezes the trigger. _Misses_. “Fuck!”

 

“Aim, and exhale, and hold it while you fire. Three times.” Even with how much taller Charon is, his breath ghosts over Max’s ear, and Max shifts.

 

“Uh...you...can let go, now. I’m...I got this,” he says, uncomfortably, and Charon quickly does so, stepping back. Max does his best to keep his back straight, raises the gun, and...

 

There’s a metallic clang as the bullet knocks the can off the barrier, and two muffled pops as the bottles follow. Max gives a quiet whoop of delight and twirls around. “Did you see that? I’m _amazing._ ”

 

Charon grabs the barrel of the weapon and points it away from him, grunting in response.

 

“Or...fine...what would you say? _Adequate?_ Was I at least—”

 

Charon jerks his attention towards something Max didn't hear, reaching back for his weapon, lips curling into a scowl as he turns towards the stairs, and Max takes a step back.

 

“What’s—”

 

He can’t continue before Charon pushes him back and steps in front of him just as the chain gate to the metro opens, and Charon aims his gun at the four armed men who start up the stairs.

 

“Well, well!” the one in front says, grinning. “What do we have here? Is that the little saint from the Vault I see behind you there? The radio did say he was traveling with some shuffler, didn’t it? How lucky it also told us where you were headed..."

 

“Turn around and leave,” Charon says. He’s absolutely still, focused, as opposed to Max’s trembling and darting eyes, and Max tries to take a breath, to calm himself enough to think straight, but he just _can’t._

 

“Oh, but we can’t do that,” the man replies, only worsening his panic. “There’s a pretty price on his head, and I want it."

 

“I’m sure we could talk it out,” Max says, shakily, and peering his head out, and Charon steps back, ensuring Max is hidden behind him completely again.

 

“No, no. There’s nothing to talk about, boy. We—”

 

Charon fires, the bullet hitting the man square in the face and dropping him instantly.

 

“Get that fucker!” another yells, and Max whimpers, trying to ignore the urge to flee and instead raising his weapon. He leans to the side and doesn't bother taking the time to aim, simply sending a line of bullets out towards the ones still standing. He drops one, and Charon gets the other two, and then Charon whips around to face him.

 

“Are you injured?”

 

Max looks at him with wide eyes and shakes his head, then sits down against the wall behind him. “No. What the fuck? Who were they? Why were they looking for me? What’s he mean, I have a price?”

 

Charon doesn’t reply, stepping over the bodies until he gets to their leader, reaching into his pocket.

 

“What’re you doing?”

 

“I have had _many_ employers,” Charon says, holding up a piece of paper and handing it to Max. “They are bounty hunters.”

 

“A...a bounty?” Max chokes out, staring down at the paper—the contract to _assassinate_ him—and then up at Charon, sputtering. “That’s...but...but why? I didn’t do anything! I just want my dad!”

 

“You may not have had to do anything. You are from a Vault. I assume they would think you would not fight back.”

 

“E-everyone wants to kill me! I-I-I’m gonna die...I don’t wanna die!” He curls into himself, shaking his head. “Please, I don’t wanna die…”

 

“I will not allow that,” Charon says, coming to stand by his side. “I will not. That is what I am meant to prevent, and I will. However, there will be more, and they know where you are. We must move immediately, for your safety.”

 

Max nods and agrees, but he makes no move to get up. There are tears in his eyes, and he’s breathing too fast, and Charon quietly, patiently leans against the wall beside him, watching. It’s rare to see an employer exhibit fear so openly, especially without demanding Charon turn away.

 

“I can’t...I think…”

 

“What?”

 

“I can’t breathe. I can’t. I can’t. Something’s wrong. I just—” He cuts off with a groan and lays down, still curled up, shielding his face with his hands. Charon crouches and takes Max’s tiny wrist in his hand, pressing a finger to the vein there to feel his pulse. Rapid heartbeat, shaking, on the verge of hyperventilation—strange...so similar to how Charon gets sometimes...

 

He reaches for Max’s bag and pulls out a water, handing it to him, and Max gratefully takes a few drinks, hardly able to twist the cap back on.

 

“You are...frightened," Charon says, cautiously. "But you are safe now.”

 

“‘s a panic attack,” Max finally pants, “I think. I think. Or I’m dying. I think I’m dying. But I might not be. We’ll fucking see. Fuck, shit, oh god…”

 

A...what? It’s not something Charon has heard of before, but he decides it’s not really the time to be making the boy speak. Besides, it’s not his place to ask questions. He simply murmurs, “Oh,” and goes quiet.

 

Max whimpers, starting to trace a random pattern into the ground with his finger, and Charon ends up rolling his eyes when _that_ seems to calm him down a bit, sitting back against the wall. If only it was so simple for Charon. He takes a deep breath, and Max mimics it, glancing up at him, clenching his fist and giving Charon a pitiful expression.

 

Charon tilts his head, allowing his breaths to come and go more audibly. Max taps his finger slowly, rhythmically on the ground, eventually slowing his breathing down to match Charon’s, closing his eyes, humming softly to himself.

 

Neither of them move for a while. Charon itches to get up, to get them out of here, but he doesn’t, and he doesn’t dare say anything. At last, thankfully, Max clears his throat and opens his eyes, looking exhausted. “S-sorry.”

 

“Are you well?”

 

“A little better, y-yeah,” Max murmurs, pulling himself up to sit. “I...I didn’t die. That’s...good.”

 

“I was not under the impression you would,” Charon says, and Max chuckles weakly.

 

“Yeah...sorry. Those...happen. They’re...really bad, now. I...I used to take medicine in the Vault, for it. And it helped. But I don’t have any out here, you know? I just...ugh. They’re scary.”

 

Charon frowns as he listens. “Medicine?”

 

“Yeah. To make those not happen. And to...well...doesn’t matter.”

 

Those. Panic attacks. Were those what Charon had? He certainly had experienced something like what Max just had an uncountable amount of times. After a nightmare, or after an employer forced him to do something particularly horrific, or just...sometimes. He never  _used_ to. He has always been afraid, but never so...so...uncontrollably.

 

Then again, he's never had a _nice_ employer, and most have been downright evil. The things he has been put through, especially by the line of five or six brutal bastards prior...by the one directly before Ahzrukhal...by Ahzrukhal _himself_...it all no doubt destroyed him beyond any hope for repair, given him more to fear than before.

 

But...Max? If it was _not_ a normal response to fear, to stress, and was instead something far worse, why in the hell was Max getting them even _before_ he came out here? What had the boy gone through in his pampered, perfect little Vault life?

 

“Of course,” he replies, irritated, but he doesn’t let it show. “Shall we move on, now?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry about...yeah.”

 

Charon gets to his feet, turning the corner, hooking his thumb under the strap that holds his shotgun as he waits for Max to pick himself up. The boy stumbles as if he’s lacking sleep, squinting up at Charon as Charon grabs his arm to keep him from falling.

 

“Do you...do you think we could stay another night?” he asks. “Or even just...a few more hours? I get...tired...after. I’m afraid I’ll be even worse out here than usual.”

 

“As you wish,” Charon says, nodding. It will be safe in the city, especially with a bridge that no one in their right mind would let down for Talon-Company. Although, they had let it down for a ghoul…

 

Max nods, patting Charon’s hand, which is still on Max’s arm. “Thank you.”

 

Charon tenses. Why is Max willingly touching him again? Why doesn't he cringe away like everyone else? It's so absurd that it _angers_ him...and it scares him. It's not something he wants, and yet Max keeps doing it. That's not good. Pretty soon he'll have to try and speak his mind about it, and that's even _worse_. He pulls his hand away and folds his arms tight across his chest, turning around.

 

“...What?” Max asks, and Charon gestures for him to walk without responding.

 

Max looks him over, sighs, and then starts back off towards Rivet City.

 

“How...do you not get scared?” Max asks after they’re safely back in their room, and Charon frowns, leaning against the wall.

 

“Do you believe learning to properly use your weapons will make you unafraid?”

 

Max forces out a laugh, laying down and curling up under the blanket. “I...well, I was hoping, yeah. Like...if I know what I’m doing, and I know I won’t miss, I won’t—”

 

“I can improve your ability to defend yourself,” Charon interrupts, “but I cannot lessen your fear. Do not confuse what you can be taught with what you must yourself learn. It will improve itself with your own experience.”

 

“So...it’s ‘cause you’ve been doing it so long? ‘Cause, like, I’ve never even seen you miss, and you took down that mutant with a _knife._ ”

 

 _I am well-trained,_ Charon thinks, and bites his lip so he does not say the words aloud. Instead, he replies, “I am thoroughly practiced.”

 

Max’s expression turns sour, and Charon wonders if his thoughts had been the same. His conditioning has never been a secret, but he’s never had an employer so grievously focused on it.

 

“Yeah,” Max finally says, rubbing at his eyes. “The world is exhausting. I just need to sleep."

 

Charon nods. Max points at the chair in the corner and says, “You can sit if you want. You’re...always standing.”

 

“Is it what you wish me to do?"

 

Max groans and turns onto his other side, waving a hand in dismissal. “No. No orders. If you want to sit, then you can sit. Or go do whatever you want. Actually…” He reaches down to his bag, grabs a handful of caps, and holds them out to Charon. “Here.”

 

Charon frowns. “Payment is against the rules of my contract.”

 

“Holy shit, it’s not...just go get a drink or something. Do what you want. I want to sleep, and I don’t want you in here bored and having to _watch_ me. Go...do something. Just don’t get in a fight or anything. _Take_ them, c’mon.”

 

“I…” Charon says, taking the caps and putting them in his pocket. “I am uncertain what your orders to me are.”

 

“No orders! Go do something else, something you want to do. Come back later. Bye."

 

Charon blinks, dips his head in acknowledgment, and then leaves, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it. Do...what _he_ wants? He doesn't want to do anything! But he can’t stand here. He was ordered to do something. _Something_. He only wishes Max had been more specific. He had mentioned getting a drink, but clearly hadn’t been thinking straight. How will Charon protect him from danger if he is drunk? No. Not that.

 

So...something else. He frowns, pushing himself off the door and starting down the hall, trying to think. All he’s supposed to want is the well-being of his employer; there’s no time for what _he_ wants. He's hungry...maybe he should find somewhere to eat?

 

A security guard passes him with a glare, hissing, “Watch yourself, shuffler," and Charon holds back a growl of anger.

 

“Don’t look at me like that. You shouldn't even be here. I’ll put you the fuck down.”

 

Charon doesn’t look away, and she pulls a baton from her belt.

 

“You really wanna test me?”

 

He takes a step back before he breaks the one order Max did decide to give him, _no fighting_ , and lowers his gaze to the floor, shaking his head.

 

“That’s the right choice,” she says, turning on her heel and walking off, swearing under her breath, and Charon only looks up once he’s alone in the hall again.

 

Before him, on the floor, is a beaten up pack of cigarettes, one that must have fallen from her pocket. His mouth twitches into a brief smirk as he grabs it and shoves it into his pocket.

 

He eventually finds himself on the bridge tower, away from anyone, sighing heavily as he sits with his legs hanging over the side. He pulls the cigarettes and his own dented flip-lighter out, putting one between his lips and inhaling deeply as he lights it. Yes. This is definitely something he wants. He hasn’t had a smoke he could sit down and really enjoy in _far_ too long. When he had just come to Underworld, not even yet aware of how bad Ahzrukhal could be, he had occasionally been ordered out of the Ninth Circle without anything to do, and he’d always gone to Willow, who had always given him a cigarette and spoke with him. Ahzrukhal hadn’t done that anymore after a while, and then had forbidden him from speaking to anyone else at all, taking away anything that could possibly lift the misery he was constantly in, even if just for a few minutes.

 

Charon scowls, shaking his head. A couple of gunshots hadn’t been a good enough ending for that bastard’s life. He had deserved much worse. All of his employers had. 

 

He tucks one of his legs up and wraps an arm around it, moving his other hand to flick the ashes from the cigarette, and stares off at the ruined city. He tries to let his mind go blank, but he’s never had much luck with that when he's alone; it finds just as much pleasure in tormenting him as his employers ever did, he’s sure. He needs to be _doing_ something to distract himself, to forget. He isn’t supposed to have time to himself, and he doesn’t _want_ it.

 

He tosses the cigarette down towards the water when he’s finished and lights another, and eventually has to admit the silence is rather nice. He can hear the water lapping at the rocks below and nothing else, and if he had the ability to feel calm, he might have experienced it here. When he’s done with his second cigarette he finally pulls himself out of the unproductive daze, taking his bag and his weapon off of his back and disassembling it, cleaning each piece. He was foolish to fall asleep before doing so last night. If it had malfunctioned today at the metro gates, resulting in Max being injured? It would have been his fault. Unacceptable.

 

When the sun starts to set, he decides it’s late enough to return, and he picks himself up and stretches, heading back down to the room, nearly bumping into a man as he rounds a corner.

 

“You look familiar,” the man says quietly, blocking Charon’s way, and Charon frowns, looking him over, remaining silent, searching his memories. He can't quite...

 

“Name’s Sister. Have we worked together? Oh...oh, _wait!_  You’re that guard from Underworld, right? Yeah. The one that—”

 

 _Oh, no, no, no..._ Charon’s blood runs cold, and he shakes his head. “You are mistaken,” he says, shouldering past the man.

 

“Bullshit,” Sister says, following. "I couldn’t forget. You worked for...the hell was his name...Ahzrukhal, right? Let me tell ya, that little miss you handed over—”

 

Charon turns around and sticks his hand out in a gesture to _stop,_ because he suddenly cannot find his voice, but Sister just grins and continues.

 

“—sold for more than _anyone_ we ever had before. That's how I remember ya. And what did we pay him? Some chems? Boy, he got ripped the fuck off,” he laughs. “You still with him? Don't tell him that..."

 

“I killed him,” Charon hisses, and Sister looks down to see Charon has his knife out.

 

“What do you think you're gonna do with that?"

 

“You son of a—"

 

Sister pushes himself back against the wall, letting out a soft cry of, “Guard! Help!”

 

Charon sheathes his knife and turns around, holding his hands up to show he’s unarmed, and then feels Sister shove the barrel of a gun against his lower back at the same moment he realizes there _is_ no guard.

 

“Keep your hands up,” Sister says. “Don’t fucking threaten me. I know you're a good fighter and all, but you’re not gonna win against a bullet to the head. Why're you so pissed? I didn't make you hand her over. Glad you did, though. She was so _pretty_. We took care of her."

 

Charon scowls, flexes his fingers, and then twists and reaches back, grabbing the gun and wrenching it from Sister’s grasp, pointing it at him. Sister staggers back, startled, and Charon grabs his shoulders and shoves him into the nearest empty storage room, closing the door and baring his teeth.

 

"Wh-what are you doing?"

 

He drops the gun at his feet and kicks it away, takes out his knife again, and pins Sister to the wall, covering his mouth.

 

"Taking care of _you_."

 

**x**

 

When he's back in the room with Max, having made damn sure he wasn't followed or seen, he silently sets his things down and slumps in the chair, doubling over and tucking his arms under his thighs, face pressed against his knees, panting.

 

She'd done nothing to deserve it—just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught the attention of his employer and had no one to fight for her, no real experience of her own, her only fault being that she was far too trusting. He had  _begged_ Ahzrukhal not to make him do it, had beared the headache as long as he could manage—

 

_"You cannot—"_

_"I am, Charon."_

 

_"For chems! Please, I cannot—"_

 

_"Please? What's that worth to me, hmm? Find me something else to sell if you're so unhappy with it. I'm listening. Would you prefer it be you? No? Then get your ass out of here and get her outside. Now. Don't keep them waiting."_

 

“...Charon?” Max mumbles, rubbing his eyes and sitting up, checking his Pip-Boy. “Jeez, I slept a while." 

 

Charon flinches slightly and straightens back up, blinking hard.

 

“‘S everything okay?”

 

Charon clasps his hands together, trying to stop them from shaking, glancing down to be sure he washed away all traces of blood _._ “Yes.”

 

She'd been even younger than Max...it's not even the  _worst_ thing he's done...

 

“You liar. C’mon, what’s wrong?”

 

“I cannot lie to you,” Charon says, averting his gaze. He cannot lie, he can avoid, and as long as he can deem it irrelevant to his employer's safety, he can escape with minimal head pain. How is he supposed to go about explaining what he has just done, anyway? And _why?_ He can't.

 

“Okay...I just...are you okay?”

 

Charon bites his lip and nods. “I am only concerned over your safety.”

 

“Oh. Well...we can go now, if you want.”

 

“I want what you want,” Charon quickly says. “It is whatever you wish.”

 

Max looks him over, then untangles himself from the blanket and stands up, tugging his shoes on. “Okay. Let’s go. I’m not tired anymore, anyway.”

 

Charon stands up too quickly, too eagerly, and grabs his things again. He keeps Max in his sight as they leave, and leads the boy through the market instead of the hall he had run into Sister in, ignoring the comments that are thrown his way by the residents.

 

“Shut up, asshole,” Max snaps at one of them, and Charon rests his hand on the boy's shoulder, protectively.

 

“How doesn’t that bother you? They're so mean!” Max says once they’re on the bridge, and Charon breathes out a sigh.

 

“I have been called worse.”

 

“Are you...sure you’re okay?"

 

Charon realizes his hand is still where he placed it on Max minutes before, and he quickly removes it, ducking his head and taking a few steps to the side. “I am perfectly _fine_.”

 

Max puts a hand up in surrender, turning away. “Okay. Sorry. I'm sorry."

 

Charon doesn’t respond, and Max sighs as he starts down the stairs.

 

Off to Vault 112, then.

 

**x**

 

_"Three Dog here with an update to an earlier story about those nasty Talon-Company mercs. I'm gettin' word that they were after Mr. 101. Hell if I know why, but I'll be damn careful with what I say about him from now on. Ain't gettin' any help from me, assholes. Damn. Sorry about that, kid. But I'm hearin' your tall friend from Underworld's got a damn good aim on him. Good to know someone's watchin' your back. Anyway, kiddies, 'till next time, this has been Three Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some more music..."_


	9. To Be Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has gotten more love than I ever expected it to and I can't even believe it, thank you all! More to come soon! :D

After a while, Charon admits that he was wrong. It isn’t just _difficult_ for Max to travel the Wasteland; it’s nearing impossible. His employer is exhausted, yet stubbornly refuses to break for more than an hour unless it is to sleep. It only takes a day and a half for the purified water to run out, and it’s something they have not come across again. Max has mentioned more and more that the project mentioned by Dr. Li, so fondly chased after by James, is starting to sound like the best idea he has ever heard, despite how he had pushed the topic away before when speaking to her.

 

“Perhaps we should travel only by night,” Charon says, and Max closes his eyes. It’s midday, and he is sitting in the meager shade provided by a small boulder, leaning heavily against it. He’s soaked in sweat and badly sunburned, the top portion of his head still in the sun, and Charon pulls himself up to sit on the rock, positioning himself so his shadow covers the boy completely.

 

“Oh...thank you,” Max mumbles, and he sounds awful. “But it’ll take longer. I gotta...plus you said it’s dangerous at night.”

 

“It is always dangerous,” Charon says, looking down at him. “However, the heat is affecting you more than anything.”

 

“‘Cause it’s fuckin’ _hot_. But I can’t just sit around all day.”

 

“Perhaps only when the sun is highest, then? You cannot continue like this."

 

“Maybe.” He covers his mouth and coughs, and then curls sideways. “I’m so _thirsty…_ ”

 

“Do you wish me to find water?”

 

“No, don’t leave me!” Max says, and Charon pulls his hand away when Max reaches out like he might be trying to grab it.

 

“I’ll die. Don’t go.”

 

“Very well,” Charon replies. He takes out the bottle of river water he’s been sipping from far less frequently than he should be, and Max squints up at him when he hears the bottle crackle before grimacing.

 

“I puked last time I tried to drink that shit.”

 

“I thought no different,” Charon says. He looks about, then moves to pick up as many twigs and brush that he can find around them, and Max watches, puzzled, as he crouches down and piles them together. He then reaches into his pocket and produces his lighter, and Max makes a face.

 

“Why the _hell_ are you makin’ a fire? Isn’t it hot enough?”

 

“You do not wish me to find water, so I shall make do with what we have." Charon says, grabbing for Max’s bag and pulling two empty bottles out, adding a few more twigs to the tiny flame.

 

“...What do you mean?”

 

Charon only grunts in response, and so Max stops questioning and simply observes as Charon takes his knife and slices the bottom of one bottle off. He stands again, roaming around the rock Max is against, and eventually kneels back down with a handful each of grass and pebbles. He then puts the fire out and crushes the burnt pieces of wood between his fingers. It’s still glowing red, and Max winces, but Charon doesn’t react; Max doesn’t know why he expected otherwise.

 

He brings his legs up, completely intrigued as Charon then takes the empty bottle he’d cut and places layers of sand, grass, pebbles, and the burnt wood into it, before handing the second to Max.

 

Max blinks, staring down at it. “I...don’t…”

 

Charon puts the rims of the bottles together and pours the dirty water into the funnel, and Max is absolutely dumbfounded to find it comes out clearer into the bottle he is holding.

 

It’s a _filter_ , he realizes at last, and it’s just about the best thing he’s ever seen.

 

“Holy shit! That—how did you—” he sputters, eyes wide in delight, and Charon runs the water through the filter twice more before deeming it safe enough to drink. Max lets out a gleeful whoop, letting the liquid cool his burning throat, and he wants to  _hug_ Charon.

 

“That was so fucking cool! Where’d you learn that? Holy shit!”

 

“I do not recall,” Charon says, and then turns to climb onto the rock again; it’s such a sudden, awkward end to Max’s excitement that he almost flinches. He looks up, but Charon has his back turned to him now.

 

“Um...do you want some?”

 

“I require nothing.”

 

“Okay, and I hear you, except I’m still kinda thinking about you passing out for half a day last time you said that.”

 

Charon crosses his arms and grunts again, and Max rephrases. “Are you thirsty?”

 

The very idea that Max would consent to have Charon drink from something he used himself is absurd. Charon huffs, sets his jaw, and grits out, "Hardly." 

 

“Please? You’re gonna get sick!”

 

“You need not be concerned for me,” he says, and then sighs heavily when he feels Max nudge the bottle against his hand. “You are _incessant._ ”

 

Max _giggles_ , and Charon finally turns to grab the bottle and lift it to his mouth. It takes all of his willpower to take just one swallow, to not down the entirety. He then uses his sleeve to wipe the rim off and hands it back to Max.

 

“Thank you. Are you always gonna be this fuckin’ _stubborn?_ ”

 

“I do as my employer commands.”

 

“Ah,” Max says, taking another drink as if he’s not at all bothered by Charon’s filth, and is trying to prove it, and Charon nearly grimaces himself, moving to face the other direction again.

 

“So unless I order you to take care of yourself, you won’t?”

 

Charon closes his eyes and doesn’t reply. He's exhausted; a kind of tired sleep can't fix, and nothing Max does or says helps it. He wants Max to stop trying to talk to him like he's a  _person_ and just command him to do something, _anything_.

 

“Is that what your _employers_ are usually like? Just giving you whatever when _they_ feel like it?”

 

“Usually.” Always. Same thing.

 

“That’s not against your contract? It says they can’t hurt you. I’m pretty sure starving you is hurting you.”

 

Charon scowls at the ground and digs his nails into his palms. There is no _end_. “I serve you for good or ill."

 

"But—"

 

"I serve you for good or ill."

 

"I'm—"

 

"I serve—"

 

"Stop!" Max shouts, and Charon silences himself, relieved. That's all he wants. That's it. He wants orders. He _needs_ them. 

 

Max grabs his bag, holding it tightly to his chest. "Shit...sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry. I'm just tired..." He takes a few more moments, silently, to recover before getting to his feet and hauling his bag over his shoulder. "We can go now...I'm sorry. Just...forget I said anything."

 

Charon doesn't have time to respond before there’s a shot in the distance, and a bullet pings off the metal plate on his back, nearly knocking him off the rock entirely. He swears and jumps into action, getting in front of Max and pointing his gun in the direction it had come from but seeing nothing. A sniper, then. But—?

 

From around another boulder, further out, a black and red painted sentry bot wheels a few feet out, and Charon sighs in irritation.

 

“What?" Max asks. "Who is it? I can’t see—”

 

“Outcasts. They will not shoot you.”

 

Max lowers his gun, and Charon struggles for a moment to decide whether to step to the side or remain in front of Max. They won’t fire at Max, at a random _human_ civilian, but his contract pulls him to stay anyway, just in case. However, he needs to preserve _himself,_ and if they don't see he is accompanied by a human...

 

Max decides for him, just as his head is starting to hurt, and plants himself at Charon's side as if they are equals. “What’re Outcasts? Are they bad?”

 

Charon resists the urge to rub at his temples and grunts in response. It takes a minute, but eventually, two Brotherhood Outcasts emerge, approaching them with disdainful scowls aimed at Charon.

 

Max recognizes the power armor, but definitely not the colors. Outcasts...of the Brotherhood of Steel? He cocks his hip out to the side and puts a hand on it, glaring. "Hello? Who the fuck are you? Why’d you shoot at us?”

 

“Us? It’s a ghoul,” one of them offers, voice slightly muffled by their helmet. “Are you really with it? Why’s a local traveling with one of these?”

 

“ _He_ is my friend,” Max spits, and Charon tenses.

 

“Your _friend?_ A ghoul?” The Outcasts exchange glances, just as doubtful as anyone would be upon hearing such a ridiculous thing, and the other shakes their head.

 

“Typical Wasteland mutt. Off his fuckin’ rocker. Let’s go.”

 

“ _Excuse_ you," Max says, and they completely ignore him, turning. Max throws his arms up in a gesture of aggravation, and Charon once again reflexively grabs for the boy’s wrist before Max pulls it away.

 

“Sorry. Sorry. Are they...from the Brotherhood?"

 

“They separated themselves from the Brotherhood,” Charon replies, "and they do not get along. I know nothing more. Only that they are still just as bigoted.”

 

“Why?”

 

“...I am sorry?"

 

“Why does everyone hate ghouls?”

 

What kind of question…? Charon, just briefly, meets the boy’s eyes and then tilts his head down again. “We are not human.”

 

“Of course you are."

 

“You are one of very few who think so,” Charon says. He watches as Max heaves a sigh, kicking a pebble out from under his foot. He looks...so genuinely _upset_ about it. It makes no sense.

 

“Well, I don’t hate you,” the boy says finally. “I think they’re stupid.”

 

Charon is all at once overwhelmed with anger, and he doesn't think before he speaks. “Or maybe _you_ are the foolish one. You know _nothing_ of me, of what I have done. You are a _foolish_ little child, and it only grows more clear with every word you speak. I am _not_ your friend. It is not my job to be your friend, and I do not _want_ to be, and you are far more stupid than I previously thought if my _friendship_ is something you desire.”

 

The moment the words finish leaving his mouth, Charon is horrified. _Insulting_ his employer? Being so disrespectful? He is not allowedto say things like that...

 

He tries to remain steady, because it was his choice, albeit an absentminded one, to do so, and he deserves whatever punishment is surely about to come, but he finds himself shrinking back anyway, ducking his head and keeping his arms stiff at his side, resigning completely. He is almost _frightened;_ every time he has let something awful slip past his lips he has been made to suffer for it, and his breaths are uneven as he waits.

 

And waits.

 

And then he hears Max start to _cry_.

 

He freezes, opening his eyes and staring at the boy, who glares up at him and then whips around.

 

What? Why…? _What?_

 

For a moment he worries Max is injured, somehow, but as he looks his employer over he realizes there’s nothing physically wrong with him. Why, then, is he...crying?

 

His mouth opens and closes, wordlessly, until at last he manages, “That was out of line. Forgive me.”

 

Max only shakes his head and starts off, and then snaps, “I just wanna find my dad. I don’t want to be your stupid fuckin’ friend. Fuck you. You're an _asshole_."

 

“Very well,” Charon says, quietly; he’s not disappointed.

 

It, of course, turns out not to be true. That night they take shelter in the remains of a house they find, one with a good portion of the roof and all of its walls, and Max,  _of course,_  tries to make conversation as Charon cooks mole rat meat over a fire just outside.

 

“I’m sorry for being a dick before. I’m...stressed. But I’m not _stupid_. That really was mean.”

 

Charon tilts his chin down. “I was out of line. I apologize. You are entitled to discipline me if you wish.”

 

“I’m not doing anything to you.”

 

Charon merely nods in response, and Max fidgets, wringing his hands.

 

“Have...have I been okay to you? Other...other than that part?”

 

Charon glances over at the boy. In the light of the flames, he can see the other’s face outlined with concern. Concern? For him? Ridiculous. He is not someone to be wasting that on. “Yes.”

 

Max relaxes a bit, rubbing his arm. “But you still don’t trust me.”

 

Charon almost wants to laugh. Does the boy think he can gain _trust_ within less than a week? Charon has none to give, but if he did, it certainly wouldn’t be so quickly. He doesn’t respond, handing Max a bowl he’s put most of the meat into and leaving the other pieces untouched. He still expects retaliation; most commonly he is denied food, and he decides he’ll wait to ensure he is, in fact, allowed.

 

Max watches as Charon sits back and pointedly looks away, quickly realizing Charon is waiting to be told it’s _okay_ for him to eat something.

 

“Please eat,” Max says, and doesn’t touch his food until Charon obeys, looking Charon over as the other downs the rest of the meat. He always eats so quickly, desperately, as if he thinks it's going to be taken away if he’s too slow. Is that what his other employers did? Treat him like an animal while he constantly worked to keep them alive? Disgusting. He hopes Charon killed them all, just like he had with Ahzrukhal.

 

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the ‘training’ Charon mentioned, the brainwashing, every time he has the chance. Charon doesn’t want to talk about it, and he shouldn’t have to. Max won’t ask. That’s not what a good person would do, and he’s determined to prove to Charon that _good_ is exactly what he is.

 

But that doesn’t stop him from wondering. It’s been over two hundred years, and Charon is still attached to a ragged piece of paper—why? What had been done to him that still held him prisoner all this time later? It makes him sick to imagine. Whatever torture Charon has gone through, from them and his former employers, he certainly never deserved it. He’d been Max’s age, maybe even younger, when the bombs dropped, when he had been forced into a life of perpetual servitude. Had he been this cold back then? This stoic? If not, what had been done to him to make him that way?

 

Charon apparently notices him staring, and he _twitches_ , straightening up and crossing his arms. There’s something about the movements that make Max almost feel _concerned_ , but with Charon’s consistently impassive expression, he just can’t tell what's wrong.

 

After a second and another awkward shift in position, Charon asks, “Do you need something?”

 

“What?”

 

Charon pauses for a moment before replying. “I am usually not watched so closely unless something is wanted of me. Is it not to your satisfaction?”

 

“Oh,” Max says, and shakes his head, lowering his gaze. “No, it’s good! It’s fine! Better than I could do. I’m just...actually not really hungry.” He holds out his bowl; Charon’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing.

 

“I don't need this much. Take some more.”

 

“I do not require your care,” Charon mutters, but he obeys the order before turning away.

 

“My...care?”

 

“I am perfectly capable of retrieving my own food if I so desire.”

 

“Then why don't you? Don't give me that _I require nothing_ bullshit. You keep giving me all the food. I know you're hungry.”

 

Charon proceeds to act like he _hasn't_ already eaten what he took just a second ago, scoffing. “I give you _most._ It is my objective to keep my employer healthy and safe. I come second. I would only suggest otherwise if I felt weak, but I do not. I require very little. Your concern is unnecessary.”

 

“Sure,” Max says, rolling his eyes, and takes a few bites before he speaks again. “And you don’t have to ask for permission.”

 

“You have not ordered me to do so.”

 

“You still waited for me to tell you to eat. That's asking for permission. You're not my...you’re a person.”

 

Charon looks up at him, gaze leveled at Max's shoulders, which Max supposes is as close to eye-contact as he'll willingly go for more than a second. He doesn't say anything, but he looks...confused.

 

"Is that...what you're usually supposed to do?"

 

"It is...how I am wired."

 

Wired? Now what did that mean? Did Charon truly see himself as nothing more than a machine? “What if...ugh. Okay. What if I... _ordered_ you not to? To just...I dunno. Do what you want?”

 

Charon absentmindedly starts to itch at the back of his hand. He...he doesn’t know what’s going on, and he doesn’t like it. Why would he be ordered to do such a thing? To... _not_ have his actions approved? No employer has ever allowed him such a thing; he doubts any even considered it. He was utterly lost when Max sent him away at Rivet City; he cannot imagine how horrible it would be to constantly feel like that. He’s meant to be... _controlled_ ; he’s never wanted anything more than freedom, and yet, faced with it, he suddenly finds it a terrifying concept. 

 

“I would be compelled to obey,” he finally says, slowly. “But I would be uncertain how exactly to do so.”

 

“Nobody’s ever told you to do that before, have they?”

 

Charon shakes his head, looking away. Max notices he’s caused himself to bleed, and yet continues to almost compulsively scratch his skin, just as inattentively as he had rubbed his thumb along his rifle before. _Nervous_. Maybe it's the only thing Charon can feel.

 

“Just...okay. This feels gross, but...I...I order you to do what you want, unless I tell you to do something else. Which, I won’t,” Max says. “Okay?”

 

Charon goes very still, eyes darting around, and then hesitantly nods. "Yes. Have you any guidelines?”

 

“No. No catch. Do whatever you want. Like, _anything_. Well, please don’t leave me. But other than that.”

 

“I would never leave my employer,” Charon says quickly, as if he thought maybe Max was really suggesting he would.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that. Just...consider yourself free. Okay?"

 

Charon finally pulls his hands apart and crosses his arms, staring down at the ground. He looks like he might be _sick,_ and Max asks, "Are...are you okay?"

 

"I...I am uncertain how to proceed."

 

"Well..." Max shifts into a more comfortable position, humming thoughtfully. "What did you do when I was sleeping before?"

 

Oh, that's not something he wants to think about. Not at all. He takes a shaky breath and presses a hand to the cigarette pack in his pocket, then pulls it out, staring down at it. 

 

"You smoke?" Max questions, and though his tone is anything but accusing, Charon still tenses, shaking his head.

 

"If you wish me—"

 

“Charon. Is that what _you_ wanna do?”

 

It takes a moment for Charon to find his voice again. “Yes.”

 

"Well, then, good! Great! Awesome!"

 

Cautiously, Charon sticks a cigarette between his lips and lights it, watching Max for a reaction. 

 

The boy gives him a thumbs up, and Charon scowls, grabbing his bag and turning away, laying out a cloth and starting to disassemble and repair his gun as he has every other night.

 

"Oh," Max says, quietly. He doesn't know what he did wrong, but...it's probably best he leaves. “I guess I should…I’m gonna go to bed.”

 

“Of course. I shall keep watch.”

 

“You can wake me up later if you wanna sleep.”

 

It’s the same offer he’s given every night, and Charon continues to have the same terse response, a short, “I will not,” and nothing else.

 

Max rubs at his eyes and starts to retire inside the house, only Charon suddenly calls his name, and when Max turns back, Charon is looking at him again.

 

"Yeah?"

 

Charon appears a bit confused again, and then finally he says, "Thank you."

 

Max smiles, nods, and cheerfully says, "Goodnight," before disappearing into the house, and Charon returns his attention to his gun. It's something that will take getting used to, but...he can't say he isn't grateful. Even if it's revoked in the morning, which he certainly expects, for just one night, he, in some small way...is free. It's...unreal. One thank you isn't enough; neither is one thousand. He doesn't even know how he feels, let alone how to express it. It makes his head hurt. 

 

When he's finished with his gun, he moves on to Max's, needing to keep himself from thinking. Then, as he's putting the fire out, he hears Max yelp his name, even from outside. He's beside the boy in an instant, shotgun raised and ready, but finds they are alone. He lowers his gun slightly, frowning, and asks, “What is it?”

 

Max’s eyes are full of terror as he looks around, and it takes a few moments for him to return to himself, to remember where he is, and realize he is safe. A bad dream. That's it. Just a bad dream. He can't immediately stop his tears, though, and God, he just wants his dad, he wants to be _held_ and told everything is okay even though it's  _not._

 

Charon only takes a second to analyze him, and easily comes to the conclusion of what happened. Max had nightmares, too? Oh, what a stupid thing to think—of course Charon isn’t the only one. But...it’s so very strange to see an employer, someone with complete power over him, to experience something that Charon does, and for a _second_ time now. No employer had ever been sympathetic to his fear, or seemed to feel such a thing at all. They only felt anger, and distaste, and the desire to hurt and insult him.

 

“Sorry,” Max finally sniffles, breathing more steadily. “I had a bad dream.”

 

And to _admit_ a weakness so easily? Charon finds himself feeling something he can’t quite figure out, an almost softness to what is usually anger.

 

“Can you...stay close?” Max continues, looking up at him. “Please? Just...to be safe?”

 

“As you wish,” Charon replies, nodding, and turns around, taking one step away and staying there.

 

“That’s...good. Thank you.” Max sounds half asleep again already, and when Charon glances back a few moments later Max is out, turned onto his other side, blanket half falling onto the floor, hands curled under his cheek.

 

That same odd, unnamed something tugs Charon over to take the blanket and lay it back over his employer, and he is at once reminded of when he woke in Rivet City, warm and swathed in fabric he had concluded later that he certainly did not pull onto himself. He left everything to his employer, always. Was it possible that Max had…?

 

Rolling his eyes and swatting his hand into the air, as if striking the outlandish idea from his mind, he starts to pace around the house, rummaging through the junk he finds for anything useful, whatever he can to keep himself busy.

 

He very clearly hears Max whimper, “ _Dad,_ ” sometime later, but decides to pretend he didn’t.

 

**x**

 

It's the slightest miscalculation that brings them near Evergreen Mills. Even Charon, somehow, never found himself needing to know the exact location, and they only realize what it is when the  _huge fucking cliff_ Max points out ends up leading to the hidden valley holding the factory.

 

“Do not,” Charon hisses at Max, grabbing his wrist as the boy tries to get closer to the edge.

 

“But—but there’s—” He cuts off and steps forward anyway, shaking his head, and Charon releases him, frowning.

 

“You are upset because I do not want you to be killed?”

 

Max glares at Charon so sharply that Charon tilts his head down, biting back an apology.

 

“No. I’m upset I can’t help them.” He points, and Charon follows his gaze to the fenced-in area below holding several slaves, aimlessly wandering about their cage.

 

“What?” Charon doesn't actually mean to speak, but he has to be sure he even heard correctly. He will  _never_ get used to hearing such things from his employers.

 

“What do you mean, _what?_ I hate that shit. Don't you wanna help them?”

 

“I do if you do.”

 

“I _do._ ”

 

“Then yes,” Charon says, “but I am afraid I must advise against it. Even with myself by your side, there are too many. You are not yet as skilled as you could be, we are running low on ammo, and have only our two weapons. It would be very unwise. Ultimately, however, it is your decision.”

 

Max sighs and shakes his head. “No. You're right. We can't. It would be stupid."

 

"Quite," Charon says, relieved to see the boy show some sense for once.

 

"Look at that shit, too, over there. They have a pet behemoth. That's just great. Fuckin' crazies."

 

"We are in danger, out in the open like this. Please. Let us move on."

 

"Sorry, yeah," Max mutters, shaking his head. He braces himself to move, for them to continue on their journey, and then something hits him, just under his ear, and he jolts from the force. Confused, he reaches up to place a hand over the side of his neck, finding it vaguely sore, and then notices his hand is covered in red as he pulls it back. The hell? It…can't be blood, right? No...no, that's not possible...

 

He thinks he hears Charon call his name, but he suddenly feels sick, and he can hardly hear anything else besides an awful ringing. His neck is really hurting now...it's hard to think, to _breathe_...something is _wrong_ but he just doesn't know what, and...

 

And his vision fades out, and he pitches forward, and there's nothing beneath him but darkness.

 

**x**

 

_"Hey there kiddies. Three Dog here again. How's the Capital Wasteland treating ya'll today? Hope it's better than yesterday. Not to say a damn thing about where, but I heard 101 was headin' out towards a dangerous-ass area of the Wasteland. As if it's not all dangerous. Listen, when I say words on here, those words mean somethin'. If I say don't fuckin' head over to this place...don't fuckin' go there! Come on, kids, I know adventure awaits, or whatever, but there're some places you just don't wanna do that. Or maybe that's just me. Either way...shit. Be careful. Him, his friend, all of you out there. Fight the Good Fight, but for shit's sake...do it safely. Don't get yourself killed while you're at it. We need you, alright? Anyway...this has been Three Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some music..."_


	10. For Just A Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Charon having a mental breakdown for like, the entire first half of the chapter. ;_;

There’s no sound, no warning, no anything. Charon doesn’t even know what’s happened until he catches blood seeping down Max’s collar, and he can hardly get the boy’s name out before Max slumps forward, off the cliff.

 

Charon lets out a cry and lunges to grab for him, missing, and instead grabs onto the edge, overwhelmed with the most heart-stopping terror he’s felt in decades as he stares down where Max has landed. He breathes again, relieved, when he finds it is only a few feet down, but God, it’s still too far, and Max isn’t _moving_ —

 

He slides down to grab Max just as a bullet pings off the rock behind him, the second shot he never heard fire. Under his boot he feels something crunch, and he swears as he shoves Max’s now-mangled pair of eyeglasses into his pocket. He then cups one hand firmly over the graze in Max’s neck—it’s deep, it’s bleeding too much, _shit_ —and holds him tight against his chest as he sprints to a shack several feet down the pathway to take shelter behind. He lays Max down, and Max whimpers and chokes, blood trickling out of his mouth as Charon quickly grabs for a stimpak and injects it into the gash. There’s too much blood...but he has to recover, he _has_ to.

 

Max cries out, gasping for air, and then his eyes slide shut and he shudders again before going still, and Charon is so scared that his hands tremble as he feels for Max’s pulse.

 

A beat. Too slow, but there. He's alive. Charon puts a hand out to the shack for support—the headache reminds him how he has _failed—_ and then he jumps to his feet as the door opens, and a man with a baseball bat meanders round the side.

 

“What do we have—”

 

Charon aims and fires before the raider can finish, watching him drop, and then checks the shack for any more danger before carrying Max inside and placing him on the bed in the corner. He then shoves both a heavy cabinet and a table in front of the door, backing away. It's relatively safe, sturdy. It just needs to last long enough for Max to wake up, and then…

 

He groans, staggering, and drops to his knees beside the bed, trying to focus through the slowly worsening pain. He checks Max’s pulse again, relieved to find it steadier, and his wound has already stitched together into a jagged scar. He’s alive. He's alive.

 

He leans over, clutching at his head, and then curls into himself, retching as tears drip down onto the floor.

 

_He's alive. He's alive. Make it stop. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

 

He knows it won't make a difference. As many times as he's failed, he _knows_. Sometimes it's more bearable. Small wounds result in a bit less agony. But an employer near death...that results in an _awful_ pain that draws out far longer than it should, almost more than he can handle. And as if the damn headaches weren't enough...

 

His contract prohibits violence unless he, himself, breaks the rules. He is not allowed to injure his employer, to let anyone or anything else hurt them. And if he does, if he _fails_ , the contract states he can be punished in any way seen fit by that employer. All limits, except the one that prevents him from being killed, are negated until he is as thoroughly regretful as they please, and he is entirely forbidden from fighting back.

 

Unsurprisingly, employers usually saw it fit to beat him until he just wasn’t able to keep the pain silent and to himself anymore, to break his bones or make him injure himself until sobs shook his body to remind him he has no will of his own. Being completely at an employer’s mercy, especially when they just don't _have_ any...it’s the most awful, most frightening thing Charon can think of. Any other time he can protect and defend himself, he can void the contract for most abuse, but when he fails...he is helpless. And some...some had been worse than others...one had somehow been worse than them _all_ , but no, _no_ , he can’t think about that.

 

Everything he’s been put through is his own goddamn fault, anyway. The only excuse for failure is death, and even that isn’t a good one. That is what he had been taught, what had been etched into his brain. And with all the things he’s done to others? He deserves worse. He deserves so much worse.

 

He’s on the verge of blacking out when the pain finally starts to fade, and he collapses, panting, pressing his forehead to the floor. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering, and catches his breath before attempting to move again, rolling onto his back and blinking hard to clear his vision. He needs to...oh, his head...he can’t remember…

 

 _Max._ He needs to protect Max until he wakes up. That's right. Then they can figure out what to do.

 

 _If_ Max wakes up…and after whatever he will do to Charon then.

 

Charon lets out a low moan, mostly because no one can hear it, and squeezes his eyes shut. What _will_ Max do to him? Just because Max is small and probably could not harm Charon with his fists, it does not mean he won’t find something else, that he won’t make Charon slice skin off or anything else he’s been subjected to over the past two centuries.

 

Surely this has to be where the kindness ends. It has to be. And Charon knows damn well it’s entirely his fault.

 

He manages to drag himself up to his knees, pulling Max’s blanket out of his bag and laying it over the boy. He then sits facing the door, pulls his gun into his lap, settles his bleary gaze on the door, and waits.

 

**x**

 

It takes the better part of an hour for Max to stir, and Charon jumps as he feels the boy tug at his collar, immediately turning around and laying his gun on the floor. Max blinks up at him, squinting, and Charon bows his head, getting onto his knees and placing his hands flat on the ground in front of him.

 

“Words cannot express how sorry I am…”

 

Max groans softly, reaching up to rub at his eyes, and then rasps, “Huh? Wha’s goin’ on?” He feels around beside his head, frowning, and adds, “M-my glasses?”

 

“You were shot,” Charon says, slowly. “It was only a graze, but…it nearly killed you. There seems to be no damage besides a scar, now, after a stimpak was administered.” Charon moves only enough to reach where he set Max’s glasses on the floor after his attempt to fix the frames, holding them out cautiously, like they’re an offering. “Your eyeglasses were damaged...I did not see them...I broke them. I am sorry. I did my best to repair them.”

 

Max lets out a strangled noise and grabs them, slowly sitting up with a grimace and then leaning against the wall. “No...no, no…” he mumbles, sticking a finger through where the bottom half of the left lens used to be. Both sides are cracked, the frames bent and crudely taped together in the middle, and Max whimpers as he puts them on. They are beyond ill-fitting, and when he looks around, he can only really see through one eye. “I can’t see right...I’m fuckin’ blind without them! Shit!”

 

Charon flinches, and it’s only then that Max realizes the ghoul hasn’t moved or raised his head at all.

 

“Charon? What's wrong?”

 

So very quietly, Charon says, “I have failed you.”

 

“...What? I—holy shit, why are you shaking? Charon—”

 

“I-I have allowed you to be injured,” he says, and it's the first time Max has heard him stammer so noticeably, like he’s just barely managing to force the words out. He draws a quivering breath, and it shoots a chill up Max’s spine.

 

“It... _failure_...is in direct violation of the contract. Retaliation is allowed. It—it is required. So long as my life is not threatened, all...limitations are...put on hold until I am thoroughly made to regret my unforgivable mistake.”

 

Max understands, now, and he’s horrified. “Charon, what the fuck? No! No, you didn’t let anything happen! You told me to get back!”

 

Charon doesn’t look up; he might even lower his head further. “I must be punished. I must.”

 

“No, look at me,” Max says, and when Charon hesitantly does so, wincing as if in preparation for a blow, Max is almost rendered speechless because he has _never_ seen someone look so scared. It makes his heart ache.

 

“Charon,” he breathes, “fuck, listen to me, I’m not doing anything to you. Do you hear me? I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

Clearly, Charon misunderstands. He sits back on his heels and unsheathes his knife, holding it to his upper arm and watching Max for orders, and Max cries out, grabbing for Charon’s wrist. Charon flinches again, turning his head, and then hears Max shout, “What the fuck are you doing? Stop! Let go of it! Now!”

 

Charon freezes, letting the knife drop from his grasp, and stares at Max as the boy starts to cry, cupping Charon’s hand between both of his own and leaning his forehead against them. “Jesus, Charon, no...don’t do that. Don’t ever do that.”

 

Not trusting himself to speak, Charon simply nods, stunned. Max is holding his hand so tenderly...and crying again, but...why?

 

“I must be punished,” he finally manages. “I failed you. You _must_ punish me."

 

Max shakes his head, then sharply pinches Charon’s hand. “There. Now stop. Please. I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t want you to fucking hurt yourself, you idiot!”

 

“Why?” Charon asks, staring at him. “Why must you do this to me?”

 

Max chokes out a laugh. “You mean, not hurt you? Gee, I wonder.” He raises his head to meet Charon’s gaze, too close, and Charon leans as far back as he can without pulling his hand away. He doesn’t want to. For once, his failure has resulted in a touch that doesn’t hurt, and he thinks it might be the only thing holding him together.

 

“I’m not them,” Max says. “I’m not. I will never be them. Whatever they did to you...fuck, Charon, I can’t even imagine...I will never hurt you.”

 

Charon shakes his head, tilting it back and staring at the ceiling. He can’t handle this anymore. He just can’t. “You will. You will.”

 

“No, I fucking won’t! You saved my life _again,_ and you think I’m gonna hurt you for it?”

 

“I am the one who allowed you to be injured!”

 

“Stop. Just stop. You didn’t. There’s no fucking way you could have done anything!”

 

Charon curls his free hand into a fist and slams it against the floor in frustration, and Max reaches for that hand, too. Charon, so stupidly, gives it to him, and Max holds it just as tightly, pulling both of them together with his own.

 

Charon’s breath hitches; Max’s hands are so warm, and Charon is always so goddamn unbearably cold. But he’s used to it; it doesn’t bother him until suddenly it _does_ , until now, until some part of him is warm, until he’s being touched in a way he never has before. He’s not being manipulated, not being pulled closer and into things he doesn’t want; Max is trying to _comfort_ him. Charon could easily move away, and he knows he should, but he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t. His guard is down, and against every instinct he has he stays there, allows something that could so quickly turn dangerous to continue, and closes his eyes.

 

“Listen to me,” he hears Max say, distantly. “You didn’t shoot me. You saved me. Everything is fine. Just breathe, okay? Please?”

 

Charon realizes he’s been holding his breath, and he inhales slowly, shakily, blinking wearily up at the boy who somehow has more power over him now than he did before. Charon’s on his knees, utterly subdued by something as simple as touch, and there’s something wrong with him because he can’t pull away, he _can’t._

 

Max doesn't seem to care, and doesn't take advantage of his weakness like everyone else has. He just sits there, and _smiles_ , and squeezes Charon’s hands, and for just a moment, nothing else matters.

 

“Everything’s fine, Charon. I’m okay, see? I’m okay, and I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

Charon lowers his head again and just breathes, and, slowly, his trembling fades. Max rubs his thumb over the back of Charon’s hand, and all at once it’s _too much_ , and Charon has to move, has to pull back and stand up, wrapping his arms around himself and turning around. Immediately he wishes he hadn’t, but it’s too damn late now.

 

“You okay?” Max asks, and Charon reaches for his gun.

 

“We need to move. We are in danger. It is a miracle we have remained undisturbed this long.”

 

“Charon…”

 

“We need to move,” Charon hisses, and Max nods, standing. Pain shoots through his neck as he moves it, making him dizzy, and he puts a hand out to the wall, feeling at the scar with the other. He bites his lip, then quickly stops touching it. It’s just another to add to the collection, he supposes. It doesn’t matter.

 

He raises his head to find Charon watching him, thankfully more concerned than nervous this time, and Max offers him another smile. “It’s just sore. I’m good. It’ll be fine.” He shoves his blanket back in his bag, starts to haul it over his shoulders, and then stumbles again.

 

Charon grabs one strap, gently tugging.  “I shall carry it. It will only make balance more difficult.”

 

“But—”

 

“Until you recover fully,” Charon says, and pulls it out of Max’s hands before he can protest again. Max huffs, grabbing for his gun, and carefully adjusts his glasses.

 

“It's hard to see…”

 

“I will protect you,” Charon says. “Stay behind me. Stay low. The bridge must lead out. If I tell you to run, you must run.”

 

“That’s not much of a plan.”

 

Charon sighs heavily. “It is all that I have.”

 

“So...we’re fucked.”

 

“No.”

 

“There’s like thirty fuckin’ raiders out there that are definitely gonna see us.”

 

“Most will not be able to aim at us from such an angle.”

 

Max nods, rubbing his eyes, and checks his weapon’s magazine before nodding again. “Okay.”

 

“Do not shoot until you must," Charon says, and shoves the barricades he’d created out of the way of the door.

 

It isn’t a _horrible_ plan. They aren’t seen until about halfway down the bridge, when Charon has to break off from Max and go down a separate path to take out a guard. He’s two feet from them, knife out and readied, when suddenly there’s a shout from below.

 

It’s not even a raider. It’s one of the fucking slaves, and Max is horrified as he watches them grab onto the fence and shout up at him for help. He backs away, gun out, and watches Charon toss the raider over the side of the bridge and then start to fire down at the ones gathering below, looking back at Max to yell, “Run!”

 

Max obeys, sprinting, taking cover as he fires haphazardly at another two raiders further down on other ledges and then, eventually, he finds himself at the opening of the valley, pressed against the rocks.

 

He catches his breath, looking around in anticipation of Charon joining him, only Charon doesn’t. Biting his lip, Max waits a minute longer, and then feels dread welling up inside of him. Oh, God. Cocky bastard, with that ‘I am more than capable’ _bullshit!_

 

He runs back, looking up at the bridge, and then hears more gunfire from ahead of him, and several raiders shouting for the _zombie_ to show himself.

 

“Fuck,” Max mutters. At least he’s alive.

 

“He’s on top of the train car! Get up there! Get him!”

 

Max jumps into action, rounding the car he’s beside and climbing the ladder up to the top just in time to shoot down a raider who tried the same on the car in front of him, scowling. He notices Charon just a few cars down, pressed down against the top, and he takes a deep breath before running and jumping to the next car.

 

His landing is awkward, painful, but he forces himself back to his feet and jumps to the next one, until he’s only two away from Charon’s, settling himself there to shoot the raiders anywhere he can see.

 

Charon sits up, staring at him in what Max can guess is probably irritation, and then raises his gun and shoots another. There’s two more climbing onto cars on a different set of tracks, at least ten still surrounding them, too many, there’s _too fucking many_ —

 

Charon whips around and fires in the complete opposite direction, and there’s an explosion that rocks the ground, nearly causing Max to lose his balance.

 

The electricity around the behemoth’s cage crackles, then shorts out.

 

“Oh, _shit—_ ”

 

The behemoth roars, slamming its way out of the cage, and swipes its arm, knocking three raiders out of its way and into the building behind them. Charon scrambles up as they are suddenly the least of the raiders’ worries, flinging himself to Max’s car and grabbing the boy's arm. “Move!”

 

Stunned, Max follows him down and then digs his feet into the ground. “Stop! Charon!”

 

“ _What?_ ” Charon hisses, clutching at one leg with his free hand as he whips around to face Max. “No! We cannot stop!”

 

“It’s gonna kill them, too!” Max points over to the slaves now cowering in their cage, and Charon stares at him in the utmost horror.

 

“I did not release it so we could kill it! We cannot! I do not have the ammo! Max, we—”

 

“I’m not fuckin’ leaving them to die!” Max says, yanking his arm out of Charon’s grip and darting off towards the cage.

 

Charon growls, taking one glance at the behemoth before following as quickly as he can with whatever damage the fall from the bridge has done to his leg. Damn bastards had somehow thrown a grenade right up to him, and getting offhad been the only option.

 

Max is fumbling with his screwdriver and a bobby pin as Charon approaches, and, breathlessly, Charon says, “I must protect my employer. If it comes to it, I will take you out of here!”

 

“Just give me a second—”

 

“We do not have a second!”

 

“Just hold on!”

 

“Max—”

 

“Shut up!” Max shouts, and Charon’s sentence cuts off, mouth still open but unable to make a sound. He watches, wide-eyed, as Max unlocks the gate, turning to look at the behemoth as it roars and starts roaming around, and there's only scattered gunfire now, most of the raiders surely dead.

 

“Go! Run!” Max hisses as he opens the gate, and the slaves stare at him, terrified and unmoving as there's another roar.

 

“What are you doing? Go! Please!"

 

Charon’s hands close around Max’s arms as the behemoth starts in their direction, and, despite Max’s cursing, Charon tosses the boy over his shoulder and runs.

 

“Stop! Charon! I said stop! You fuckin’ coward! Fuck you! Let go!”

 

They are orders, but Charon does not have to follow any that impede his obligation to keep his employer safe. Max starts kicking at him, but Charon holds him steady, not stopping until they are up above the valley again, dropping to his knees, gasping. Max pushes himself away, hitting the dirt and scrambling back up in the same motion, and he reaches out to shove Charon, only further infuriated when Charon doesn’t budge.

 

“You asshole! You left them to die! You fucking shithead!”

 

Still struggling to catch his breath, and still under the order for silence, Charon doesn't move, head bowed.

 

“I can’t fucking believe you! What if that had been you?” Max lets out another string of curses, kicking the ground and sending sand and dirt up into the air around them. Charon chokes, forcing himself to his feet, and Max shoves him again. This time Charon isn’t prepared, and he staggers, gasping as he attempts to put weight on his injured leg and slumping to the ground again, putting his hands up to defend himself if needed.

 

Max looks like he _wants_ to take a swing at him, but then there’s a distant roar from the behemoth, and he simply slumps to his knees and buries his face against his hands, sobbing. Between whimpers, Charon makes out something that sounds like, “He left me.”

 

Charon slowly lowers his arms, panting, and Max strikes more sand around. 

 

“He fuckin’ left _me_ to die!” he says, far more audible, and looks up at Charon, tears streaming down his bright red face. “He left me! Everyone tried to kill me! I coulda died! I could die tryin' to find him! And you—I can’t believe you did that!”

 

Charon only casts his eyes to the ground, and Max scowls. “Fuckin’ say something!”

 

“My first and only objective is keeping you safe,” Charon replies. “Not them. It was...unfortunate, but they are not my concern.”

 

“If they died, it's your fault!"

 

Charon’s mouth twists into a scowl. "And they will not be the last. I will not apologize for doing what I am required to.” He manages to stand up, slinging his gun over his back. “It is getting dark. Let us move on.”

 

Max glares up at him, then grabs for his pack. "Gimme my bag."

 

Charon leans to the side to let it slide off his shoulder, and before he can even turn around, Max has stuck a stimpak into him just above his knee with enough force for it to feel like being _shot_ , and Charon cries out, dropping back to the sand.

 

"Shit," Max mumbles, at least having the decency to look regretful as he tosses the empty syringe to the ground. "Sorry."

 

Breathing hard, Charon takes a minute to recover, and Max sits down beside him with a sigh, taking a few long, deep breaths before speaking. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

 

"It is nothing," Charon says, quietly, sitting up, and Max suddenly leans forward and tries to bring Charon into a hug. Charon flinches and immediately jumps to his feet, taking a step back and staring down at him.

 

"I thought you died. I'm glad you didn't," Max says, sounding exhausted, and Charon has had some goddamn confusing employers, but never to this extent. Three seconds ago the boy was angry enough to _stab_ him, and now...?

 

"Didn't mean to yell. Just get so angry sometimes," Max says, getting up and shaking his head. "Probably wasn't even your fault. They wouldn't fuckin' move."

 

"It was unfortunate..." Charon says, carefully placing his hand on Max's shoulder, and Max leans into the touch.

 

"I just want my dad...my stupid fuckin' dad...I'm going even crazier out here..." Max mumbles, tearfully, and Charon gently squeezes his shoulder.

 

"We are close. We shall find him."

 

Max reaches up to put his hand over Charon's as he checks his map, and Charon lets out a soft, content sigh without meaning to. He stiffens, feeling his face grow a bit hot from shame, but Max doesn't give any reaction, and Charon prays he didn't hear. He quickly pulls his hand away, because he's going softand it's disgusting, and Max genuinely seems disappointed, his shoulders slumping as he starts to walk in the direction of the garage.

 

Charon follows, shaking his head. It's never taken this long to map out an employer's behaviors, for Charon to know just about everything about them and how they work, but Max himself is...an enigma, and Charon honestly isn't entirely sure he'll ever figure it, or the boy, out.

 

**x**

 

_"Three-Dog here once again, kiddies, with a special GNR public service announcement that may, ahem, be directed, ahem, to some certain power-armor wearin' buddies. Ghouls are people too, alright? They've just been exposed to an ungodly amount of radiation and didn't get lucky enough to die. Sure they may look dead, but they're as alive as you and me. There is no damn reason to shoot at them, there's no damn reason to kill them, or tell me shit about 101 because he's travelin' with one. They're just tryin' to live out here, same as us. Stop with the bigotry. We have enough hatred goin' around as it is. Can't you...you know...not, maybe? Except...the ferals. You know, the ones that make those terrifying-as-fuck growling sounds and try to kill ya? Yeah. Kill as many of those as you like. But regular ghouls, the not feral ones, just...let 'em be, alright? Hell. This has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some more music..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Oops Max is a little shit.~~


	11. All This For Nothing

It’s the third time Max catches Charon staring at him that he says something. They’ve just cleared Smith Casey’s garage, and he can feel Charon’s eyes boring into the back of his damn head _yet again_ , and it’s _weird._ He whips around, noting how Charon almost startles and then quickly tilts his chin down, and then demands, “ _What?_ ”

 

“I am sorry?” Charon says, like he was never expecting Max to notice, and Max rolls his eyes.

 

"You just keep...staring."

 

“Oh.” Charon shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I apologize.”

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Charon’s gaze lifts up a bit; not to meet Max’s, but at his shoulders again, and it takes Max a second to realize what he’s looking at. He cups his hand over the scar on his neck, and Charon tenses.

 

“Charon…”

 

“Shall I search for supplies?” Charon asks, already moving to do so, and Max stops him by just raising a hand.

 

“It wasn’t your fault."

 

Slowly, Charon nods, but it's only because he is not supposed to argue, and frankly he doesn’t _want_ to. He’s starting to get tired again, and his body aches, and he can’t stop thinking about how, for the first time, he has failed someone whom he did not feel a sick sort of satisfaction upon seeing injured.

 

No matter the pain he knew would result from his failure, or how many times he spat out blood and apologies to unforgiving ears, he had never truly been sorry. As much as he deserved the abuse, they had always deserved that broken limb, that bullet or knife wound, that new scar that Charon would sometimes notice and scowl to cover his pleasure at the memory.

 

But now, as he’s looked at Max’s scar nearly every moment the boy is turned, hair just short enough that it leaves the mark uncovered, he doesn’t feel that. He almost feels nauseous, and he wishes Max hadn’t wasted a stimpak on him, because for allowing his employer to be injured, for allowing a _child_ to be injured, he deserves to still be in pain.

 

“You’re just nodding because you have to, aren’t you?” Max asks, and Charon crosses his arms.

 

“I heard you, if that is what you are asking."

 

“I'm asking you to stop feeling guilty."

 

“I apologize, but that is an order I cannot comply with. I have no control over that.”

 

Max sighs, rubbing at his arm. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll talk later. Help me look around?”

 

“Of course,” Charon says, glad to escape the conversation, and quickly rummages around the room they are in while Max kneels to search through his bag.

 

“You know,” Max begins, taking out his last, half-empty box of ammo and then sitting down against the desk beside him, pulling his gun into his lap. “I met, like, three different guys who were goin’ around selling ammo and other shit before I went to Underworld, but now that I actually need them? Nah. They’re gone."

 

"I am always looking for ammo for your weapon as well as mine," Charon says, and Max frowns.

 

"I...never said you weren't?" he replies, and then has to wonder if Charon is just looking for approval, to be told he's doing something good after his perceived mistake. "I mean...but yeah! Thank you!"

 

Charon's expression doesn't change, and he doesn't give any response, still just watching, quiet, calculating, and Max has just about given up on ever understanding how goddamn _odd_ Charon is, or _why_. He sighs, and once he's done reloading his gun, he pulls out a can of Pork N' Beans. "Hungry?"

 

Charon shakes his head, watching Max struggle to open it for a minute before taking out his own knife and holding his hand out. "May I?"

 

Max hands the can up to him, and he cuts the top off before inspecting it closely.

 

“You understand this is two hundred years old, yes?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Max says, taking it back with a huff. “Is that bad? It still tastes okay."

 

Charon squints down at him, then gives the slightest shrug with one of his shoulders. 

 

"I think I have a thing of Cram in here, too, somewhere...want that?"

 

Shaking his head again, Charon goes back to roaming the rooms for supplies, and eventually finds a trunk behind the desk, pulling it out and  _away_ from the skeleton beside it.

 

“Find anything cool?”

 

Charon gathers the items of the trunk and the other things he found in his arms and places them on the floor beside his employer, taking the boy’s grin as approval for the action.

 

“Ooh, look how pretty!” Picking up a small silver locket and clicking it open, Max’s smile quickly fades. “Oh.”

 

Charon tilts his head, unable to make out the details of the picture inside from where he’s standing. Max closes it, holds it tight in his hand, and then sighs, swallowing hard.

 

After a moment of silence, Charon crouches down to search through the rest of the things, picking up a stimpak and holding it out to Max.

 

“What’s that?” Max asks, only briefly glancing over, and Charon frowns.

 

“A stimpak."

 

Max turns to looks, half closing the eye behind the shattered lens, and he swears, tucking the necklace into his pocket.

 

“Shit. I'm gonna die, Charon. I have one eye.”

 

“I will not let you die,” Charon says, placing the stimpak in Max’s bag. “Perhaps we can find another pair of glasses in our travels?”

 

"My eyes are awful. I don't think so."

 

"I apologize...I should have placed my steps more carefully..."

 

"Oh, of course, 'cause you definitely should have been thinking about that while saving my life. That was sarcasm. Don't take that seriously. It was an accident. It woulda happened eventually, anyway...guess I should get used to it. Ooh, but I do see this…” He picks up a Jet inhaler, and Charon stiffens, glaring at Max as if Max had just cursed at him.

 

“...What?”

 

“I must suggest you think very carefully before doing anything with that.”

 

“ _Duh_. I’m not gonna smoke it, I’m gonna sell it. Pretty broke right now.”

 

Charon touches his armor, casting his gaze to the floor. “You did not need to buy me—”

 

“Yes, I did. You needed it. You’d probably have died if you didn’t have it at the stupid mill. You can have things that aren’t falling apart, Charon. It’s not against the contract. Right?”

 

“It is not,” Charon agrees, scratching at a scuff in his shoulder plate. “Thank you. It is all much appreciated.”

 

“I know!” Max says, grinning. “You’re welcome. You look better, too. Now you just need to take a bath so you _smell_ better.”

  

Charon rolls his eyes and waves dismissively, muttering his usual, ‘ _I would do so if you commanded it’_ and then walks off again, and Max laughs, tossing the now-empty can to the floor and standing. 

 

"That's the one thing I'm  _not_ kidding about, I—"

 

"I believe I found a door," Charon interrupts, and Max quickly grabs his things and rushes over to Charon's side, looking up at the switch on the wall. 

 

"Yeah? Click it!" 

 

Charon does so, stepping back as the metal hatch before them opens. Almost immediately, two mole rats come barreling up the stairs, and Charon easily kills them before Max has even had the chance to aim. He then silently gestures for Max to stay, creeping down the stairs, and then calls an all-clear after a few more gunshots.

 

“You found it!” Max says, gleefully, coming to Charon's side, and he takes Charon's hand and squeezes it, just once. He's let go and moved on before Charon even comprehends it's happened, and he nearly shivers as he looks down at his hand, curling his fingers towards his palm, then out again. There's nothing there but scarred skin, exposed muscle, and he wonders what the hell Max finds so  _intriguing_ about such a repulsive sight that he keeps wanting to touch it. It's...it's...Charon doesn't know  _what_ it is.

 

“We’re so close!” 

 

Charon finally looks up, returning to Max's side as his employer—his _employer_ , he has to remember this is his employer, who is almost certainly still trying to trick him, to get him to trust so that he can be _hurt_ —clicks a few buttons on the vault door control panel and connects his Pip-Boy.

 

“And...if he is not here?”

 

Max sighs. “Do you always have to be so negative?”

 

“It was only meant to be a suggestion of possible outcomes. I would stop talking, if you wished."

 

“No, I don't want that,” Max says, hitting the button and watching as the vault door hisses and starts to open. “I like talking to you, when you’re not being an _asshole_. You've been a little nicer lately, though, so that's good. You remind me of this old guy who lived in my vault. He was always so grumpy, just like you. And...I guess you’re actually pretty old, so that would explain a lot.”

 

Charon rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he follows Max inside.

 

“He was _actually_  mean, though,” Max continues. “You’re just emotional, I think. You know who else was emotional? My friend Amata. She’s a _girl_.”

 

“You have cried exactly twelve times in six days,” Charon says, and Max cuts off, mouth hanging open.

 

“Well _shit_ , Charon, play it that way,” he says. “I was just kidding. Why are you keeping track, you weirdo? You’ve smiled exactly _never_ in _ever._ There’s a lot of things to cry about in this stupid fuckin’ world. But...but I guess there’s not much to smile about, is there?”  

 

Charon doesn’t mean to respond, but he mutters, “No,” anyways, and Max's expression turns a bit concerned.

 

“Sure you don’t want a hug?”

 

“I would rather do _anything_ else,” Charon says, looking over the boy’s head, and Max shrugs, clicking another door open.

 

“Welcome,” a robobrain greets them, and Charon nearly blows its head off while Max shrieks and hides behind him.

 

“My sensors detect you are...two-hundred...point...three...years behind schedule.”

 

“For fuck’s sake!” Max breathes, brushing himself off and shaking his head, pushing Charon’s gun down. “Hey, did a guy from Vault 101 come in here? His name is James! He's my dad! I need to find him, please.”

 

“Please put on your Vault 112 jumpsuit, and—”

 

“Yeah, no, I’m just looking for—”

 

“Please put on your Vault—”

 

“I’m going to have my ghoul shoot the _fuck_ out of you if you—”

 

“Please, sir, put—”

 

“Fucking—I swear to God!”

 

Charon puts a hand to his face and shakes his head, heaving a sigh as Max scowls and grabs the suit from the robobrain.

 

“Not like I’m in a _rush_ or anything, sure. Charon,” Max points at the opposite wall. “Turn around, please. Don’t look at me.”

 

“I was not planning on it,” Charon replies, obeying, and crosses his arms. He hears the robobrain move, and Max yells, “Fuckin’ pervert robot! Fuck right off!”

 

Charon makes an odd, strangled sound in his throat, not quite a laugh, because goddamn if that isn’t the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, and he quickly disguises it with a too-loud cough.

 

“Bless you," Max says, and then, after a minute: "...I think it gave me a child size. It's really...small.”

 

“Forgive me if I am wrong, but is that not exactly what you are?”

 

“I’m almost twenty, thank you very much.”

 

“Are you?” Charon asks, and Max scoffs.

 

“Uh, yeah! What’d you think I was?”

 

“Fifteen, if that.”

 

“Jerk! I’m just short!”

 

“Very.”

 

“Or maybe you’re just a fuckin’ giant, you _freak_ ," Max snaps, but it sounds more like he's trying to hold back laughter rather than really being upset. "You can turn around now."

 

Charon does so, looking down at Max as the boy kneels at his bag, shoving his armor into it. "Shall I hold that for you again?"

 

"I think I got it," Max says, though nearly topples over as he tries to put the too-heavy bag on.

 

Charon takes one strap, tugging, and Max sighs, letting him take it, yanking at his sleeves and trying to adjust the suit.

 

"I'm not weak, you know, I'm just...tired," he says, and Charon gives a soft grunt in response, easily slinging the bag over his shoulder and then gesturing for Max to move on, following him into the hallway.

 

“Those are the loungers, I guess,” Max says, pointing through a window they pass, and Charon frowns at the terribly suspicious-looking contraptions all in a circular room. He moves to get ahead of Max, going first, and keeps a hand on his gun as they walk around them.

 

Suddenly, Max _screams,_ and Charon whirls around, shotgun in his grip and ready as he rushes over to where Max is standing, face pressed against the glass of one of the loungers.

 

“Max—”

 

“That’s—that’s him! Dad!” He bangs a fist on the glass, tears welling up in his eyes, and while his father’s eyes are open and blinking, the man doesn’t respond.

 

“Dad, what—what is this? What the hell’s on his head, what—Charon! Charon, get him out!”

 

Charon puts his gun away and pulls at the latch, but it’s locked tight. He looks at the man inside, wincing; the device on his head...attached to the top and surely doing something to his brain...it would be dangerous to force it off, and he can't possibly shoot the lock with Max so close, anyways...

 

He puts a hand out to support himself. “Max, I—”

 

“Just _help_ him!” Max shouts, having rounded to the other side and started trying to break the glass again, and Charon trembles, pressing his other hand to his head.

 

“Max...”

 

“Dad!”

 

“ _Max_ ,” Charon groans, sinking to his knees and clutching at his head, and then he finally lets out a choked cry that he can’t hold back.

 

“What the hell?” Max quickly kneels beside him, and him pushing on Charon's shoulders is the only thing keeping Charon from collapsing completely.

 

“What? What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

 

“I cannot obey, I _cannot—_ my _head..."_

 

“Stop, stop, don’t do anything!”

 

The pain starts to ebb, and he’s leaning heavily against Max when he comes back to himself, gasping. Max’s hands are tightly gripping his upper arms, and his forehead is resting on Max’s shoulder, and he’s momentarily too weak to move away.

 

“Charon,” Max is murmuring, “please say something...come on...Charon?”

 

“...Yes,” Charon rasps finally, blinking hard, and Max heaves a relieved sigh.

 

“Oh my God, I thought you were dying. What happened? Are you okay?”

 

Slowly, Charon raises his head, sitting back, and Max releases him, though keeps one arm out just in case.  

 

“Your father,” he begins, wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath to steady himself. “He is connected to that device, which is connected to the top of the lounger. I do not know what it is. I could kill him by forcing it open.”

 

“Not him, you! You just—you just—what happened?”

 

“Your ordered me to get him out. I cannot disobey commands. If I do...I am punished.”

 

“In...your head? How is that even possible?”

 

Carefully, Charon gets back to his feet, and Max quickly follows, still expecting Charon to fall back down.

 

“I do not know, or recall if I ever did. It is just...what happens.”

 

“Fuck...I didn’t know...I’m so sorry! I almost killed you!”

 

“No,” Charon says. “I only lose consciousness, and only for a short while."

 

“Only! That’s really not much better! Does it at least...stop, after?”

 

“I have...very rarely let it go so far. It is quite efficient at what it is meant to do. But no; the pain remains when I wake as long as I continue to disobey.”

 

“What did they do to you?” Max breathes, looking so awfully worried, and Charon lowers his head.

 

_Nothing less than what I deserved, I’m sure._

 

“That...you don’t have to answer. I’m...I’m just sorry. I won’t do that again. I just got...shit, I don’t know. I don’t know how to get him out, unless…wait, there's..." He turns, looking around. "There's an empty one, I—"

 

“You cannot subject yourself to whatever that is. I cannot allow it.”

 

Max glances back at him. "Are you gonna...get all in pain again if I do?”

 

“I am uncertain. If it hurts you, yes.”

 

“If I...get hurt?" He bites his lip, tightly hugging himself. "Did it...when I got shot...did it hurt you?”

 

“Yes,” Charon says, quietly, gaze once again on the floor. Max reaches out to take Charon’s hand in both of his, holding it tightly, and watches Charon react the same way he had in the shack before, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes sliding almost completely closed, like it's the first time he's ever been touched before. It’s _weird,_ because Max has really started to notice that Charon  _despises_ contact anywhere else, but for some reason this, and only this, seems to be okay, to be comforting, even.

 

“I’m sorry,” Max mumbles, shaking his head, “I am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know. But...what else can I do? I can’t just leave him here.”

 

“Of course," Charon agrees, and Max wonders if Charon is even thinking clearly while still looking so dazed.

 

“I don’t want to, I just...don't think there’s another way.”

 

“It is very unsafe.”

 

“So’s everything else,” Max replies, sighing. He stays there a few seconds longer and then releases Charon to head over to the empty lounger.

 

Charon blinks, once, twice, to clear his head, and then follows. “And what if you do not return? If you become trapped as well?”

 

Max pauses, then tries to haul himself up into the chair. “Please help me up.”

 

“I am _strongly_ advising against this.”

 

“Noted. Help me up.”

 

“As you command,” Charon growls, and grabs Max under his arms to lift him up just enough the boy can grab onto the seat and pull himself up.

 

“Listen,” Max says once he’s settled, tugging at his suit again. “I’m gonna come back, okay? I will. I don’t care what I have to do. I won’t just leave you here.”

 

Rolling his shoulders, trying to relax and remind himself he is in no position to give his employer commands of his own, Charon nods. “Alright. Be cautious.”

 

Max hesitates, frowning. “Can you give me my bag?” He reaches out when Charon holds it up, retrieving the contract from his armor and looking it over before holding it out.

 

“To hold, this time. If I...if I _don’t_ come back...go back to Megaton, and give this to a lady named Moira. I...I don’t know anyone else, really. She’s fuckin’ nuts, but she’s really nice, and I...I don’t think she’ll be mean to you.”

 

“I will do as you command,” Charon says, taking the contract and tucking it into his own armor. He looks at Max, almost seeming a little _lost_ , and Max offers him a weak smile.

 

“That’s just to make _you_ feel better. I’m gonna come back. I-I can't...have gone through all this for nothing. I’m gonna get him out.”

 

“I will stand guard until you return.”

 

"Okay." Max takes a deep breath, leaning back in the chair as the pod closes. The device fits over his head, and there’s a brief spark of pain as the skin by his temples is pierced, and then...nothing.

 

**x**

 

Charon spends a long few hours pacing the room, checking over every inch of it for danger, and then simply standing outside Max’s lounger, watching him twitch and grimace and unable to do anything about it. His head didn’t start hurting when Max went in, so Max isn’t _injured,_ per se, but at any moment that could change. He almost lost his employer once today already, and that’s enough for however long Max holds his contract. It’s one time too many.

 

He turns around, gaze set on the floor, and crosses his arms. For an employer, Max has thus far been a decent one; it would be rather disappointing to have his contract change hands again so quickly. He hasn’t _missed_ being treated like shit. And whatever Max has started doing, so gently touching his hand to _help_ him, to  _comfort_ him, as if he deserves such a thing...he's never experienced it before, and he...he doesn't want it to stop so soon. Then again...it's temporary, either way. It has to be. And maybe it’s better for it all to end before Max can change into whatever he will become.

 

Some sort of alarm goes off nearby, and Charon is immediately on edge. He looks around, a hand back on his shotgun, and then turns just as a hiss of air escapes the pod.

 

Max, pale and disoriented, looks up at him as the pod opens, and mumbles something nearly incoherent about...a dog? Did Charon hear that right?

 

“...What?” he asks, reaching to pull Max up and out of the chair, closely inspecting him for injuries.

 

“Charon,” Max drawls, very slowly. “Hello.”

 

“Do you require a stimpak?”

 

“No…’m just dizzy. I feel weird.” He rubs his eyes and then gasps. “Put me down, put me down!”

 

Charon quickly does so, taking a step back, and Max whirls around.

 

“He—he—did it—?”

 

“...Max?”

 

Charon nearly reaches for his gun until he realizes who exactly the man walking up to them is, and then Max wails and launches himself into James’s arms, sobbing against his shoulder.

 

“Dad! Dad, dad, oh my God…”

 

“My son…” James says, quietly, tightly hugging Max back. “What...what are you doing here?”

 

“What are _you_ doing here? I—I thought you were dead! But you’re not! You’re alive!” He tightens his grip, and then almost immediately pushes James back, staring up at him, heartbroken.

 

“You left me. You left me alone…”

 

“No, no...I left you safe, Max. You were never supposed to follow me. I don’t even know how you found me, or how you got out...”

 

“Because I had to! I had to find you! I’ve been looking for weeks! I missed you so much! You—you just...left me! And it wasn’t safe! It wasn’t! They tried to kill me when you left!”

 

James’s face goes pale, and he grabs Max’s shoulder. “What?”

 

“They did! I had to...I had to kill people!”

 

“The Overseer—”

 

“The Overseer killed Jonas! And I killed him! I had to! I had to!” He starts to cry again, and when James tries to pull him back into a hug, he slaps his father’s hands away. “It's your fault! Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!”

 

Charon really tries to stay put, to stay out of this entirely, but the words, the possible threat (no matter how small), brings him over to Max’s side, anyways. James reels back and instinctively fumbles for the weapon at his belt, and Charon easily wrenches the pistol from James’s grasp, tossing it to the floor.

 

“Max—”

 

“Don’t hurt him!” Max exclaims, stepping in front of Charon, and his father stares at him, then at Charon, then back.

 

“That’s a—it’s—who is _him?_ ”

 

“He’s my...Charon,” Max replies, very softly. “His name is Charon. He protects me.”

 

“...Does he now?”

 

“Yeah. He does. And he hasn’t _abandoned_ me, so I like him.”

 

"He's..."

 

"This is not about him!"

 

"Max, I..." James pauses and looks Charon over, leaning back a bit. "Can you...can I please have a moment with my son?"

 

Charon doesn't move, glancing down at Max, but his employer shakes his head.

 

"No. He can stay. Does he scare you? Probably not as much as being alone out there scared me, but by all means, let me make _you_ more comfortable!"

 

"You were never supposed to leave..." James says. "You know, Max, that I did everything I could to give you a good life, don't you? The vault wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but...it was safe. That’s why I took you there in the first place.”

 

“Oh, yeah!" Max scoffs. "I almost forgot you lied to me my whole life! That was some news. Thanks for letting me find out through your weird, old, drunk friend, who, by the way, is a complete fucking piece of shit.”

 

“At the time, I felt the truth would only encourage you to try and leave the vault, to go looking for your past. Perhaps it was...not the way I should have handled it. However, I aimed to keep you safe, and nothing else. Nothing else mattered. But you're an adult, now. You didn't need me as much anymore, and I...I thought you would be safe. I thought you would make a life for yourself there, settle down with someone—”

 

“You know that’s not what I wanted! You know it!”

 

James sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “I'd hoped you—”

 

“No! This isn’t about me, either! It’s about you leaving me for some stupid fucking project!”

 

“Project Purity has been my responsibility long before you were born, Max."

 

"Your responsi—what about me? No, no, fine, fuck it. Whatever. But you're done now, right? You can come home?" He steps forward, leaning his head against James's chest, sniffling. "I-I live in Megaton, now! I have a house there! I—I helped them, and they let me stay there, and...and we can go there! Please...please, let's just...let's just go there. Please? Please, dad, please."

 

James swallows hard. He puts a hand in Max's hair and gently strokes it. "Max..."

 

"No," Max whimpers, his voice trembling as much as the rest of him. "Please. Dad. Please. Just...just...please. Don't leave me again. Please? _Please_."

 

"My boy...I have the information I need, yes. But...I am not finished. I must return to Rivet City, talk to Dr. Li…”

 

"No..."

 

"Your mother was just as determined to see this project through, Max. Don't you see? It could become a reality. It will! It must! Come with me, Max. I want nothing more than to—"

 

"To leave me again..."

 

"No, I want—"

 

"No!" Max shouts, shoving himself back and staggering, brushing Charon's hands off his shoulders when Charon places them there to steady him. "No! Shut up! Fuck you!"

 

"Max..."

 

"You still don't care about me! You're still leaving, all over again!"

 

“I do care about you! If I had known what would happen to you there—”

 

“Would you have stayed?”

 

James stops, _hesitates,_ and Max scowls, clenching his fists and raising one like he might strike the man.

 

Charon catches Max's wrist, pulls it back before he can land a blow, and Max whirls to face him, livid. “Fuck off! Go the fuck over there! Now!”

 

Charon turns on his heel and walks in the direction Max pointed, standing against the wall with his back to them, and Max again turns to his father, blinking tears from his eyes. “I thought you loved me. You don't! You don't! You care more about that stupid purifier than you ever did about me, or probably mom, too!”

 

“ _Max,_ ” James breathes, but Max doesn’t give him the chance to continue.

 

“No. Don’t. Just leave me alone. Again! I want you to! Get out! I hate you! Fuck you! Just leave!”

 

“I’m sorry,” James finally says, hoarse, and Max turns around, crossing his arms.

 

“Get out. Go. Just go.”

 

Without another word, James goes. Max slumps to his knees and leans over, burying his face in his hands. His father hadn’t given a damn about him, had he? Was it _all_ a lie? Every part of it? What if...what if his mother's death had been a lie, too? How long had that bastard been planning on deserting him, leaving everything behind and destroying his son's entire life? Every hug, every kiss on the head, every time he’d comforted Max when he was sad, _everything_...suddenly, Max doesn’t know if it was real or not. 

 

He cries until he's out of tears and exhausted, and then sits in a numb silence for a long while, staring blankly at the floor. Eventually, he picks himself up, and slowly goes to Charon’s side.

 

“I...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to order you. Do what you want.”

 

Charon turns to him, though keeps his head down. “It is I who should be apologizing. It was not my place to intervene. I am sorry.”

 

“He deserved a punch,” Max mutters, shaking his head. “But I probably shouldn’t have. So...thanks, I guess.”

 

Charon nods, crossing his arms, and waits for Max to speak again, only the boy doesn’t say a word. He’s staring off again, tears welling in his eyes, and Charon finally asks, “What shall we do now?”

 

Max raises his head, and he looks even more lost and confused than the first time Charon saw him in Underworld.

 

“I just wanna go home,” he finally whispers, and starts off without another word.

 

**x**

 

_"Afternoon, kiddies, this is Three-Dog, your friendly neighborhood disc jockey. What's a 'disc'? Hell if I know. But I'm gonna keep talkin' anyway. And boy if I don't have some news for you...nah, you are not gonna believe this, and I ain't even sure it's true, but then...somehow, I can believe it. That little guy from Vault 101, my God, if that kid ain't already half a legend, what I'm hearin' is he and his stalwart ghoul manservant took out...Evergreen Mills? Together, but alone? Just the two of them? Nah. Nah, you see, this ain't possible, but...shit, I think it is! Still wouldn't head out that way, as I'm damn sure there were a few strays, and now a super mutant behemoth on the loose in the area, but...a good number of them? If not...most of them? Gone! Dead! How? Hell! You tell me! I had that kid in here not two weeks ago, and now I want him back, ask him how the hell he's doin' this shit. You're sure as hell makin' the Wasteland a safer place, kiddo, and I stopped thinkin' that was possible a damn long while ago. Hear that, Talon-Company? I think you should start knowin' where he is just to avoid his ass, else he's gonna take yours out. Back at y'all with some more news, soon. Until then, this has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	12. Complicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are just...SO amazing. Thank you so much for your support so far! It makes this even more fun to do!

“I don’t feel good.”

 

Charon looks his employer over in the light of the fire between them, and then at the empty bottles by the boy’s feet. One, two, three of them, all found over the last few hours of trekking on towards Megaton, exploring any areas they came across that look like they might hold supplies and taking far longer than they should. At least, that's Charon's opinion; he's used to traveling without much pausing in between, and especially not just to look aroundevery dump that lights his employer's curiosity. They already have to find shelter for several hours a day, to keep Max from getting sick; they're wasting so much time. It'll take a week to get to Megaton at this pace.

 

“You are drunk,” Charon says, though he thinks it should be pretty obvious, looking back down as he cleans his gun. For someone who had probably never had alcohol before a few weeks ago, Max sure downs bottles like he’s been doing it for years.

 

“Oh...am I?” Max murmurs, leaning over and wrapping his arms around his stomach. “I felt good last time, though. Now I feel sick. And even more sad. I’m really sad. Did I tell you I’m sad? I’m really fuckin’ sad. I thought I’d feel better.”

 

“Alcohol is a temporary solution, at best.”

 

“Well,” Max says, and then leans to his left and throws up.

 

“No more,” Charon says, snatching the fourth and last bottle from Max’s bag and tucking it into his own.

 

“You’re...you’re dumb. I didn’t even want anymore. I feel...ugh. Everything’s…”

 

“Perhaps you should sleep."

 

Max tosses sand over his mess and slumps over on his bedroll, sighing. “Per—perhaps you should fuckin’ _eat_ something, you...you twig. Look at you. You look sick. You’re probably sick. That’s a...an order. You gotta now. The rest of it.”

 

“I am tired,” Charon says, grabbing for the last bit of food he’d left for Max; his employer certainly won’t be eating anymore tonight. “Not ill. With your permission, once we reach Megaton, I would like to rest.”

 

“You could rest tonight...man...I got first watch…”

 

Charon scoffs, wiping his hands on his pants as he finishes and rolling his eyes, not even gracing Max with a glance. “Absolutely not.”

 

“‘Kay. I’m real sleepy anyway. And sad. Fuck, Charon, I’m so _sad.”_

Charon says nothing, and Max responds to this by whining Charon’s name so loudly that Charon tenses, looking around to be sure danger a mile away didn’t hear and scowling as he turns his attention back to his employer.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Look. Look at this. Look.”

 

Charon tilts his head, watching as Max pulls out the locket he’d picked up in the garage, tossing it in Charon’s direction. Uncertain, he is slow to pick it up, and then he clicks it open and frowns at the wrinkled, hardly intact photo inside of a young girl and her parents.

 

Max is sniveling against his sleeve when Charon looks back up, blanket tucked up to his chin. “I thought my dad loved me. He didn’t even love me. I think he lied about everything. I hate him. I should have punched him. I should have left him in there. He’s not my family. He’s not anything to me. Gimme it back. No. Throw it in the fire. Please.”

 

Obediently, Charon leans forward and drops the necklace into the flames, watching the paper picture curl up into ash.

 

Max whimpers and gives another sob. “I...I thought finding him would fix everything. I did. But it made it worse. I'm...I’m cold. Can you...my blanket? Please?”

 

Charon stands, opening Max’s bag and pulling out the cloth, shaking it and then laying it over Max. His employer looks so...pathetic, so small. He's once again startled by just how odd Max is compared to everyone else; several times he's pushed Charon back and out of the line of fire, like Charon is something worth protecting when he's not. He's a killer, a weapon, a monster, and...

 

And here he is, with his employer asking him to get a blanketinstead of an innocent's head.

 

“Thanks," Max hums, curling up. "Mm. Warm."

 

“Anything else?”

 

Max giggles and looks up at him, eyes only half open. “You already tucked me in. Goodnight kiss?”

 

Charon freezes, his breath catching, and feels a cold panic settle in his stomach. He can't speak for a moment, and then he growls out a nearly inhuman sounding reply of, " _No_." 

 

“I was just kidding. Jesus. So...fuckin’...grouchy.”

 

He breathes again, air whooshing out of him, and leans over slightly, recovering. Kidding? Was he supposed to laugh? He had nearly gotten sick. He clenches his fists, scowling as he returns to his spot, kicking the metal pan he’d cooked in so hard it lands far into the darkness, away from the light of their campsite. “You are not funny," he hisses, glaring.

 

Max startles at the noise, tugging the blanket up to his neck and sniffling. “You shoulda known I wouldn’t want your ugly zombie face anywhere near me! I feel gross that you even touched my blanket! Turn around! I don’t even wanna look at you!”

 

“Then close your eyes and sleep!” Charon spits, turning his back to Max and sitting again, scrubbing at his weapon much rougher than before.

 

“Fuck you too, then,” Max mutters, huffing and rolling onto his other side.

 

Charon clutches his shotgun tightly with both hands and closes his eyes, steadying himself. A joke. Just a joke. _A joke_. How hilarious _._

 

He forces his jaw to relax as his teeth start to ache, takes a deep breath, and then continues his repairs. 

 

A joke.

 

It wasn't an order, and really, that's all that matters.

 

When finished with both his and Max’s weapons, Charon lights a cigarette and patrols the area until dawn, firing off a few gunshots at stray animals but coming across no raiders. It’s a welcome change; taking on several humans at once by himself is a feat on its own—manageable, but difficult—without having a horrifically hungover and useless idiot to drag out of the way.

 

It’s a bit later in the morning when he finally kneels down beside Max, tilting his head. It will be too dangerous for them to stay still much longer…but he shouldn't disturb his employer...no, that was reason for punishment. If Max is still upset...

 

But Max usually treated him just fine; he had been very drunk. It probably was Charon's fault for not stopping him sooner. Really...everything should be fine now. Right? 

 

With a sigh, he finally reaches out and lays a hand gently on his employer’s shoulder, shaking it. He can feel Max’s body heat radiating off of him; it’s such a simple function, and Charon wishes he still fully had it. There issome vague sort of warmth within ghouls, but Charon doesn't think it's very much; probably just enough to keep them alive. He’s sometimes still chilled standing directly in the midday sun, and can't remember a time when he wasn't. He wishes Max would take his hand again, maybe even both of them...

 

 _Stop._  

 

Max takes a minute to respond, in which Charon doesn't pull away like he knows he should. Max groans softly and then blinks up at him, eyes bright and curious. So stupidly innocent. Their gazes briefly meet, and Charon notices one of Max’s eyes is just a slightly lighter color of green than the other, both of them oddly jewel-like in the sunlight coming over Charon’s shoulder. It's barely any time at all, but it's the longest look he's taken, and he searches them for what he's seen in every other employer, but it's simply not there. The malice, the evil, the desire to hurt—there's nothing.But that just can't be. He doesn't deserve good, he doesn't deserve to be treated like this; why would this be real, after all this time?

 

Max blinks, and smiles so softly at him, and something flickers in Charon’s chest, tight and uncomfortable. He’s never been looked at like that before; despite Max insulting him last night, the boy’s expression doesn’t give off the same disgust he’s seen in every other human he’s come across. In fact, Max hasn’t ever seemed to think of him as any different. But...why? 

 

“Huh?” Max says, and Charon finally stands back up, realizing he’s been practically admiring his employer this whole time, and quickly busies himself with gathering their things, shoving the thoughts away.

 

“We should move on. It is late.”

 

“Ugh...my head hurts…”

 

Charon holds out a bottle of water, shaking it to get his attention, and Max looks at it and then groans, stumbling to his feet. “Oh, I gotta go.” He rounds the side of the house, and Charon packs his blanket and bedroll up while he’s gone, hauling both of their bags onto his shoulders.

 

Max moans again as he returns, shielding his eyes. “Why’s the sun so fuckin’ bright?”

 

“Perhaps you should drink a little less next time?"

 

“That’s...that’s probably a good idea. Yeah. You have good ideas. Has anyone told you that? You do. Thank you.”

 

Charon looks at him, startled, and then slowly nods. “...Thank you.”

 

“You...what? I just said..." He pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces. "Don’t do that, my head hurts."

 

With a stifled snort, Charon rolls his eyes and says, "I apologize," before starting to walk, with Max quickly following.

 

**x**

 

It’s late afternoon on the fourth day when they finally come across the giant metal structure that holds the town, and it’s only by chance that Charon ducks to pick up a half buried pistol in the sand just as a bullet flies by exactly where his chest would have been. He swears, swinging his gun around and up, and then Max is shouting, waving his arms up to the figure above the entrance.

 

“Stop, stop, it’s me! Don’t shoot! It’s Max! He’s with me! Don’t shoot! Please!”

 

The man lowers his weapon, just a bit, and Max shoves at Charon’s gun. “Put it away!”

 

Charon’s hands shake a little as he forces himself to remain still, uncertain, and then finally he releases his breath and obeys, scowling.

 

“He didn’t know, he didn’t,” Max says, standing in front of the gate and waiting for it to open. “I never met him, but he knows about me! You’re fine. You’re good. I...I hope they let you in. No. They have to. We can’t just leave. They like me, and so they’re gonna have to like you. Or at least...not kill you.”

 

 _That would be nice,_ Charon thinks, watching as a man approaches them. He introduces himself as the Sheriff, though Charon could probably have pieced that together from the ridiculous looking get-up the man is wearing.

 

“You know I ain’t got a thing against ghouls,” the man, Simms, says, “but I can’t go around lettin’ just any of ‘em in here.”

 

“He’s my bodyguard,” Max says, sticking close to Charon’s side. “He’s nice. He really is. He won’t do anything, I promise. Please? I can’t leave him. He keeps me safe.”

 

“Oh?” Simms asks, turning his attention to Charon. “What’s your name, huh? To be pals with this fine young man here, you can’t be too bad.”

 

Charon doesn’t answer; he doesn’t have to, and he just doesn’t care. He watches Simms, expression blank, and feels a twinge of amusement at how obviously unsettled it makes the man.

 

“It’s Charon,” Max says. “He, uh...doesn’t talk much. But I swear, he won’t be trouble. If he is, we can leave, okay?”

 

“You know I don’t wanna do that, ‘specially not to you, but...it’s a reassuring thought. Alright. He can stay. But don’t go makin’ this a regular thing, alright? Bringing home ghouls?”

 

“Nah,” Max says, softly. “I’m tired. I don’t think I ever wanna go back out there again.” He gestures for Charon to follow, and starts off to his left.

 

“Simms,” someone calls from behind them, “did you just let that thing in? Seriously?”

 

“Oh, fuck off,” Max mumbles, only loud enough for Charon to hear. “I swear. I’ve had enough of everyone.” He takes out a ring of keys from his bag and flips through them, shoving one into the lock of the door and turning the knob.

 

“Hello, sir!”

 

Charon has his gun in his hands before Max can say anything, and Max gasps, sounding offended.

 

“Don’t you shoot my robot! I like him!”

 

Charon blinks, lowering his arms a bit, and stares at the floating hunk of metal. “Wadsworth.”

 

“Ah, so you do listen when I talk. Cool,” Max says, smiling at him, and then tosses his bag to the ground and flings himself onto the couch, sighing. “Wadsworth, this is Charon. He’s good. He’s gonna be staying here, at least...for a while. It’s...complicated. Oh, shit, wait—I gotta go to the bar. My friend. You’ll like him, I think! But I have to tell him something.”

 

Charon sighs, putting a hand on the wall. He’d thought they could rest…

 

“You can stay here, if you want…”

 

“No,” he quickly replies, straightening up. “I am fine.”

 

“It’ll just take a second, okay? I just wanna make him feel better. He’s, um...not in a good place. Did I mention the guy with the stupid accent? Yeah...he’s...I want to kill him.” He shakes his head and gets up, gesturing at Charon’s bag. “You can leave that. It'll be safe here."

 

Charon shrugs it off and lets it drop, opening the door and allowing Max to go out first. He stays behind the boy, if not a bit closer than usual, glaring right back at everyone who dares make eye-contact with him. He won’t hesitate to end any of them if they cause trouble.

 

“Please, uh...act normal,” Max says, pausing in front of the bar’s door, and Charon looks at him.

 

“Normal?"

 

"Yeah...like...you know..."

 

"What do you wish from me?”

 

“Don’t kill anyone,” Max says, and his nervous laugh gives away he certainly thinks Charon might have done so if not ordered otherwise.

 

“I will defend you and myself if necessary,” Charon says.

 

“But only if necessary, okay?”

 

Charon nods, and Max takes a breath, opening the door.

 

Following him inside, Charon quickly takes in the bar. Really, it looks no different from the Ninth Circle or any other seedy bar he's been dragged into by his employers, although it is maybe a bit cleaner. Still disgusting; he would have been perfectly content to never see another bar again. Humans line the tables by the wall, and there’s a scantily-clad woman leaning close to one of the men, and—

 

“Hey, ki—”

 

Charon turns at the voice, and just about everything stops. The bartender stares back at him, eyes wide, and the glass in his hand falls to the ground, shattering.

 

_Not possible._

 

“Gob, Jesus, are you okay?” Max asks, going over to the counter, and then quickly realizes what— _who_ —the ghoul is staring at. He looks back at Charon, who hasn’t moved, who looks genuinely taken aback, and then at Gob again. “What’s...wrong? That’s…”

 

“Charon,” Gob says, no louder than a whisper, but Charon reacts to it all the way across the room. He goes rigid, almost takes a step back. It is just simply impossible _._ There’s absolutely no way he’s seeing correctly. That cannot be the Gob he is sure _died_ fifteen years ago.

 

But it is. There, standing as perfectly still as Charon, is Gob _._ He is thin, far too thin, and covered in bruises, but he is _alive_.

 

Charon moves, finally, and takes one step forward. Gob flinches violently, mirroring him with one step back. Charon feels his breath snatched from his lungs, and he cannot take another.

 

Max is lost on what to do. He decides Charon coming closer is no good, and instead turns his attention completely to Gob, who flinches again when Max calls his name, eyes wide.

 

“It’s okay! He’s with me! He’s not gonna hurt you. What’s wrong?”

 

Gob opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get a chance to respond before the door to Moriarty’s office opens, and the man stares down at Gob in distaste.

 

“It was ye that broke the glass? Huh?”

 

Gob shrinks. Charon quickly returns to Max’s side, and Gob twists his body like he’s attempting to escape them both, only instead he staggers and yelps, reaching down to clutch at one leg as he falls to the other knee. “I’m sorry—”

 

Moriarty sneers. “Damn clumsy—”

 

“I dropped it!” Max says, scowling, but he looks just as frightened when faced with the man’s glare. Much quieter, he adds, “It w-was an accident.”

 

“Two of them now!” Moriarty says, eyes shifting to Charon, and Charon’s hand falls on his knife, the other gripping the edge of the counter tightly enough his knuckles have turned white. “Just what I need.”

 

Charon bares his teeth, and Max puts a hand out in his direction. “He’s my bodyguard.”

 

Moriarty clicks his tongue as he looks Charon over, and then he turns back to Gob. “Come now, lad. Get up. Enough. I was only playin'.”

 

Gob is panting as he hauls himself back to his feet, leaning against the counter, his gaze on the ground. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m s-sorry,” he whimpers again, so very softly, and Charon’s fingers close around the knife's hilt as his eyes never leave Moriarty.

 

“Not a problem. Just clean it up, hm?” He reaches out to pat Gob’s shoulder, and Gob jerks away so frantically that he stumbles and nearly falls again.

 

“Y-yes sir, Mr. Moriarty, sir...right away,” Gob says, quickly moving to get the broom, and he's trembling as he sweeps the shards up, watching Moriarty out of the corners of his eyes as he does.

 

“Anything else?” Max asks, and Moriarty smirks at him.

 

“Any luck finding daddy yet? Poor man’s probably long dead by now. Bless yer heart.”

 

Max lowers his head, holding back tears. “No,” he says. “He's alive. I fuckin’ found him.”

 

“Oh? And what did he have to say to ye?”

 

“I don't have to tell you shit. I just came to drink. And you know, I'd feel a lot better doin' it while you're...not here."

 

“Then by all means...” Moriarty says, turning, and hisses something to Gob that is too low for Max to hear before going upstairs. Gob impossibly looks even more shaken as he dumps the glass into the garbage, and he can barely form a coherent sentence as he steps back up to the counter.

 

“Wh—wha—t c-can I get y—ou?”

 

“Gob," Max murmurs, helplessly, "Jesus...are you okay? You look awful…”

 

Gob shakes his head and looks down at his hands; he takes a few deep breaths before he speaks again. “I-I’m fine, smoothskin.”

 

“You’re not!”

 

“It’s...it's good to see you,” Gob says after a moment, giving him a weak smile, and then his eyes get wide and scared again as he turns his gaze to Charon. “...Hello.”

 

Charon doesn't respond, slowly looking Gob over, and then looks to Max, who gestures for him to speak.

 

“What? Talk! Do something! Explain, please!”

 

“He lived in Underworld,” Charon says, without wanting to, and Gob whimpers softly, his eyes on the stairs.

 

“Please, kid, please order something. Please."

 

Max quickly nods. “Okay. Sorry. Uh...two beers please.”

 

Gob ducks his head in what is unmistakable gratitude, going to retrieve the drinks, and the stairs creak and then are silent again.

 

Max glances up at them, waiting a moment, and then looks back at Charon. “Keep going.”

 

“There is hardly anything else to say. I sometimes saw him, and then he left, and I believed he died, just like everyone else did.”

 

“Why is he—”

 

“Here,” Gob murmurs, quietly, as he hands the beers over. Max pops the top on one and pushes the other towards Charon, digging into his pocket for caps.

 

"No," Charon says, pushing it away, and Max shrugs, slapping down a few too many caps.

 

“Don't," Gob says, eyes down on a glass he’s wiping clean, and Max tilts his head.

 

“What?"

 

"Don't tip me again."

 

"But...but I thought it would…”

 

Gob shakes his head. “It didn't. I got in trouble. Please don't.”

 

“Trouble,” Charon says, voice low, and Gob shrinks back, grabbing his rag and fleeing to the back wall, hands shaking as he putters with the inventory on the shelf.

 

“Why the hell is he scared of you?” Max asks, scowling up at Charon.

 

“Irrelevant.”

 

“What? Tell me!”

 

“It is irrelevant to your safety, and therefore unnecessary for me to speak of.”

 

Max glares at him and hisses, “I order you to tell me."

 

Charon winces and again says, "It is irrelevant. It is unnecessary for me to speak of. I am not required to."

 

"Tell me!" 

 

"It is _not required,"_ Charon breathes, resisting the urge to reach up to his temples. The pain is not terrible, and it quickly fades, because he's not disobeying, not exactly. The one loophole he can count on.

 

"Fine. Then just...shoo. Go over there."

 

Charon sighs, obeying, and notices that, as he predicted, Gob seems just a bit more comfortable with his distance, and even comes a little closer to Max again. He feels very, very ill, and he crosses his arms, leaning against the wall by the door and listening in vague annoyance as the conversations nearest to him change subjects.

 

“Who the fuck let another freak in here? Jesus, make it go away.”

 

“Nasty. Two of ‘em now.”

 

"It's freaking me the fuck out. Gotta tell Moriarty I ain’t gonna be back if he starts lettin' them in. Hey! Ghoul. Get. Ain't no one wanna look at you."

 

He settles a hand on the strap of his gun, shifting, and glares at the man, who immediately turns his chair the other way and quiets down. Bastards; all of them.

 

He hears a whimper even over the din, and his attention is immediately back on Gob as he grabs Max’s hands and holds them tightly, his head lowered. Max wriggles one of his hands free and places it over Gob’s, and Charon tries to tune in their conversation, but he’s too far away, and it’s too loud.

 

He’d heard Moriarty, though; he’d heard him growl his threat into Gob’s ear.

 

_‘Break another glass and I’ll break another bone.’_

 

With the information Max had given before, he's already come to the conclusion that Gob is every bit a slave as he is; even more so. This man hurts him, and deserves to be hurt back, but then...

 

Charon had hurt him, too. 

 

It wasn't Gob's fault, not really. He'd been trying to help, even when he should have known better. But he had always, always been kinder to Charon than he deserved, and Charon didn't know _why_. Charon had never spoken a word to him after he'd shown up, five years or so after Ahzrukhal had gotten hold of his contract, yet Gob had started to greet him whenever they passed as though they had talked regularly for years, and asked how Charon was despite knowing he wouldn't get an answer. Somehow he had even figured out that Charon didn't eat much, and he'd started slipping food into Charon's hands when Ahzrukhal wasn't looking, or left it with Willow for her to give him when he went on a run.

 

He had treated Charon as an equal, despite everything, and eventually, Charon, as he forever stood in his assigned corner, had started not just waiting for orders, but waiting for Gob to come through the door and shoot him a smile despite it never being returned, to maybe even chat to him for a moment when no one was listening, like they were friends, like everything was normal. It had, just maybe, made things here bearable for a few moments, and...Gob had just been so kind...and so _stupid_. He'd eventually confronted Ahzrukhal for offhandedly insulting Charon while he was there, ended up arguing with the barkeeper about his treatment of Charon. Charon had never minded anything said to him; why had the other been so foolish? And then...

 

And then Ahzrukhal's next command had been for him to _hurt_ Gob, badly enough he'd laid too injured to move at the clinic for almost a week and then left Underworld entirely. Charon had nightmares for weeks, of the blood, of Gob pleading for him to stop, of him not being _able_ to stop, and of what could have happened to Gob after. Carol had spoken some choice words to Ahzrukhal after what he had done, which all just ended up as strenuous exercise and spiteful comments for Charon, but after that? No one had mentioned him again. It was like he had never existed. And of course Ahzrukhal seemed to notice he changed, after, how he drifted into something close to a depression for a while; he'd known all about what went on between them, and he had quickly reminded Charon that he didn't deserve nice. He deserved nothing, _nothing_ , and if anyone ever decided to say differently again, Ahzrukhal would have Charon _kill_ them. 

 

Even thinking of Gob had always made chest ache in an awful, unfamiliar way, so he tried to forget; it just wasn't as easy as he wanted it to be. He'd thought all this time Gob had died the very same day he left, always expecting to come across the body in his travels, but now...

 

Now he can't help but wonder if that wouldn't have been the better possibility.

 

He stays where he is until Max finally bids Gob farewell, stumbling a bit as he makes his way over to Charon, leaving both bottles and a shot glass empty behind him.

 

“We’s...should go. C’mon. Time to sleep. I’m sleepy.”

 

Charon looks over his shoulder, but Gob isn't turned in his direction. He doesn't know why he thought it might be different. He follows Max outside and then quickly shuts the door behind Max, taking a breath. 

 

“Command me.” The words come out involuntarily, but he doesn't regret them.

 

“Wh...what?” Max asks, turning to him.

 

Charon clenches his teeth, fury glinting in his eyes, and Max, even drunk, realizes what he means before he even continues.

 

“Command me to kill that man. I will not—”

 

“Charon,” Max says, and Charon stops, closing his mouth.

 

“No. I...I can’t.”

 

Charon exhales through the slits of his nose and gives a single, curt nod. “Very well.”

 

Max takes a shaky breath, wraps his arms around himself, and walks.

 

He at least makes it inside his house before collapsing, mumbling nonsense, and Charon picks him up, climbing the stairs and laying him gently down on his bed.

 

“I believe I told you to drink _less,_ not more."

 

"It's...it's okay, Charon, Char,  _Cheryl,_ I got it. I feel good. I feel fine. How are you?"

 

"Tired," Charon says, tugging the blanket out from under Max. 

 

“I remembered...you can do the sleep. 'm sorry you don't much. Sleep is good. Wait. Wait, your hand,” Max says, reaching out, and Charon gives it to him too quickly.

 

“You an' Gob...your hands are nice," he says, inspecting Charon's closely. "They’re...weird. Like...soft. But a weird soft. Like your armor. Leather. You feel like leather. It’s weird. I thought you’d be squishier.”

 

Charon quirks an eyebrow and says nothing, and then gets to one knee to even their heights a little more. He thinks it might look a bit too much like he's surrendering, giving away power he doesn't even have, but Max is surely too drunk to notice. 

 

“I wish I could tell you to do that,” Max says, starting to gently pet Charon’s hand, and Charon's eyes slide closed.

 

“To kill him, I mean. I hate him. I like Gob. He doesn't deserve that shit. But it would be bad, I think...I dunno. I can’t think straight. My head’s all swimmy. You know who else I hate? My dad. We almost died so much for him. I had to leave the Vault for him. But the Vault was bad, anyway. They didn’t like me. I’m a bad person. A yucky, icky, bad person. Are you listening?”

 

“Always,” Charon quickly says, trying to bring his attention back to Max instead of the way he’s stroking his hand, because it just feels so nice, so comforting, and Charon doesn’t ever want it to stop.

 

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Max asks, pausing all motion, and Charon would say just about anything to make him continue.

 

“I do not, no.”

 

Max sighs, petting him again. “I bought you. I’m a bad person.”

 

“Not me. My contract. My contract has been purchased by many, not just you.”

 

“Have they all been bad people?”

 

Charon looks to the floor; he doesn't want to think about that. “They were never good.”

 

“Am I good?” Max asks, and Charon glances up at him. He’s looking at Charon so hopefully, so desperate to be told that he is, but Charon doesn’t know that for sure. He doesn’t know if he’ll _ever_ be sure. It’s far too complicated, far too confusing; it’s been...how long since they met? Just barely two weeks? He can’t be certain of Max’s intentions in that little amount of time. The way he acts...certainly he seems to be alright. But Charon doesn't know. He just  _can't_ know.

 

Max’s eyes water, and he closes them, letting out a little whimper. “I’m not…I’m sorry…”

 

“I have no ill feelings towards you,” Charon finally responds, and Max squeezes his hand, sniffling.

 

“I’ll really try to keep it that way, okay? I’m sorry. I really will.”

 

Charon nods, quietly, and Max pushes his face into his pillow. “I’m tired…”

 

Standing and reluctantly pulling away, Charon pulls the blanket over Max and asks, “May I rest?”

 

“Do what you want,” Max mumbles. "Thank you. G'night."

 

Charon watches him for a moment, so damn confused, and then closes the door behind him. He's lucky to be so exhausted, or else he would probably start that godawful thinkingagain. As is, he can barely remember how to walk, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, on notfalling down the stairs. Not Max, and definitely not Gob. He just...he needs to sleep. That's all.

 

He stops in front of the couch, a hand on the buckles to his armor, hesitant. Is he really safe enough to relax this much? It would be...rather nice...

 

Kicking off his shoes, he very slowly undoes his armor, setting it and his gun on the floor beside him, shivering in only his underclothes. Then, he finally lays down, pulling the blanket on the back of the couch down over him and tucking an arm behind his head. Both the couch and the blanket are far softer and warmer than what he's used to, and without metal poking into him in every position, it's far easier to get comfortable. His eyes close, and it's hardly any time at all before he falls asleep.

 

**x**

 

_"Look alive, kiddies. Three-Dog here once again. Ain't too much excitement happenin' these past few days...could be a good thing, though. Oh! But I did get word that James, you know, the guy from the vault, 101's father, is alive and well. Don't know where 101 went, or what they're all plannin' on doin' now...but I hope everythin's workin' out alright. Family's all we got out here, and we gotta stick together. And family don't always have to be blood, so if all you got is your friends, listen; they're all you need. You stay with 'em, you keep close, you help each other out out there, you fight side by side and you never back down, never stop fightin' the Good Fight...and you're all gonna do just fine. Until next time, this has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. Now, which song should we hear next..."_


	13. Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did s0ymilk, the author of arguably the best Charon/F!LW fic, just kudos my dumb story because
> 
>    
>  _Holy fuck_
> 
>    
> That made my entire life and I kind of completely died wow um okay
> 
> Hello you're perfect ok um yeah bye *_*

The sound of his Mr. Handy bumping into the wall of his room is what wakes Max up, and he finds himself half on the floor and tangled up so tightly in his blanket that he can hardly move. He groans, dragging the upper half of his body back up onto the mattress and writhing free, reaching his hand out to get the robot’s attention. “Can I have water, please?”

 

“Of course, sir!” Wadsworth says, spinning around to hand Max a bottle.

 

“Mm. Thank you,” he says. He feels...rested, for once, albeit a bit sick. He can’t recall any particularly terrible nightmares, and he doesn’t think he woke up as many times as he has been. Maybe being back at Megaton, safer than he’s been in weeks, and having Charon around, finally allowed him to get a good night’s sleep.

 

Of course Charon has been around when he's had nightmares, too, when he's noticed the ghoul's expression change just slightly to something softer. Max figures it's because Charon of all people must know how bad they can get.

 

“It’s good to see you awake, sir!” Wadsworth continues, dusting the cabinet beside his bed as if anyone nowadays really cares about that sort of cleanliness. “It was quite a concerning sight to see you unable to walk yourself last night.”

 

“I was drunk,” Max says, replacing the bottle for reuse when he’s done, and then he sits up, rubbing his eyes. He was drunk, and he shouldn’t have been. He can’t really remember anything past conversing with Gob, a little of Charon helping him walk home, and of staggering into the bathroom very, very sick at some point earlier; he hopes he didn’t do anything stupid. The last thing he needs is Charon hating him as much as every other employer, when Max isn’t like them! He’s not bad! He isn't really be good, either, but...he’s not bad.  

 

_Yes, you are._

 

He ignores the thought and rubs at his head, taking in a deep breath and stretching before getting to his feet. He really needs to take Charon’s advice and drink a little less; it’s not like it really helps anything, anyway. He’s still sad, and now he has the headache and nausea to deal with, too. “What time is it?”

 

“A bit past noon, sir.”

 

It certainly feels it. God, it’s so hot. Midday heat seeps in through the metal walls of the house, and he shies away from them as he makes his way to the bathroom, then down the stairs. One thing he does miss about the vault is air conditioning. He is simply not meant to live out here, constantly in the sun. He’s fairly sure his skin is eventually going to melt off if he doesn’t find a better way to keep cool than fanning himself with his hands.

 

He looks over to the couch where Charon is unsurprisingly still asleep. He noticed a night or two ago that Charon had started looking as tired as he had the day they had left Underworld, and he’d slept for over half a day then; he doesn't expect him to wake any time soon. However he manages to sleep for so long is beyond him; it’s like he’s recharging to go for another week without stopping. It’s _unhealthy;_ that’s what it is. Ghouls definitely need less sleep than humans, but he’s going to have to start actually ordering Charon to take care of himself; the way he looks after that long of no sleep is...well, even more dead than usual.

 

He looks Charon over, and is both awed and incredibly pleased to see he’s really made himself comfortable in a way Max never thought he would—taking his armor off. That meant...Charon was starting to trust him, right? At least a little? Max had started to think that shit was fused to him.

 

Charon lets out a slightly louder, harsher breath and turns his head, and Max waits to see if he’ll wake up, but he doesn’t. However, focusing so closely on him for those few seconds, Max realizes Charon is trembling _._ It’s almost too vague to see from the distance, but when Max gets closer, almost close enough to touch, he can hear Charon’s breathing audibly shaking, his fists clenched into the sheets. Max wonders if Charon is having another nightmare, or...actually...it looks like he’s _cold_. He can’t remember Charon ever giving any indication that he even _gets_ cold, but then...half the time Charon’s so quiet and still and blank that he might as well be one of the thousand (terrifying) mannequins posed all around the Wasteland. Even if he was uncomfortable, it’s not like he ever would have admitted it. And that blanket he’s got over him now is ridiculously thin…

 

Max takes both blankets from his bed upstairs and lays them over Charon, frowning when the ghoul’s feet still stick out. Damn is Charon tall...was everyone that tall before the war? Max is very short, sure, but Charon literally towers over both him _and_ everyone he's seen so far, in the vault or out here. It's...just another thing to add to the (already very long) list of Weird Things About Charon.

 

Wandering around for a minute, thoughtful, he finally takes his other shirt and covers Charon’s feet. It’s completely useless, but it makes him feel a little better knowing he tried. He watches Charon for a minute again, trying to see if it helps, and eventually Charon curls onto his side and stops shivering so violently. It’s kind of _cute_ how small he can make himself, the blanket covering up to his nose-hole-thing and rippling every time he breathes out.

 

 _Cute?_ Max thinks, frowning and going to his bag to get something to eat. _Charon?_

 

He’s sure it’s not a term anyone else would use regarding a ghoul, but...well, Gob is the most adorable creature he’s ever seen in his life, and Charon...cute might not be quite the right term for anything he does, but sometimes he still gives Max the same little flutter felt when Gob turns his big eyes towards him and smiles, and Max kind of just wants to hug them both and never let go. Charon wouldn’t allow that, and Gob would probably be too frightened, but Max has realized he doesn’t find them as repulsive as everyone else like he really should. Sure, they smell kind of funny, and some of them ooze, but that doesn’t mean everyone should hate them. They're terrifying to look at, at first, but, with Charon and Gob, Max doesn’t find them scary anymore. And maybe it’s been being around him for the past two weeks, but he really, really likes having Charon around. He's not so lonely anymore, and he's safe, and protected, and the fact that he's traveling with a _ghoul_ doesn’t even seem to matter.

 

Maybe Max is trying to be friends with them because no one else wants him around. He’s just as gross as they are, anyways. It makes sense.

 

He sighs, then frowns at the pile on the floor beside the couch, pursing his lips. Did leather wash the same as regular clothes? He can probably get it done before Charon wakes up…that’s a nice thing to do, right?

 

He finishes eating and then walks himself down to the middle of town with a bucket, filling it halfway with the water from the puddle that seemed to have a never-ending supply and dragging it back up to his house.

 

Breathing hard, he finally settles himself on the stairs, a slice of soap in one hand as he hefts half of Charon’s armor into the bucket with the other. It makes a startlingly loud noise as metal hits metal, and he cringes, but Charon doesn’t so much as stir. Good. Charon looks a lot more peaceful now, and the last thing Max wants to do is ruin that.

 

As difficult as it ends up being, Max lathers each part separately and then washes it, making a face at how dirty the water ends up being after. Gross. The amount of dirt that must be caked on Charon. _.._ ew. He needs four more buckets and Charon to take a fucking bath.

 

For now, though, this’ll do. He hangs the armor over the railing just outside the door to dry, and then takes his bag full of junk (along with everything he’d given for Charon to put in his) down to trade with Moira.

 

“And...his name is Charon?” she asks as she looks over his glasses, and he nods.

 

“He’s pretty nice! Most of the time. I like having him around, I think, it’s...it’s just…”

 

“He’s a ghoul?” her own bodyguard pipes up, and Max turns around.

 

“Was I even talking to you?”

 

The man snorts. “Watch it, boy.”

 

“You watch it!”

 

“Max,” Moira tuts, using the same tone his father always did when he was acting out, and he goes quiet, looking down.

 

“Sorry. It’s not because he’s a ghoul. It’s the whole...fuckin’...contract thing.”

 

“Oh, yeah, the poor thing. Nobody deserves a life like that, no. Have you talked to him about it?”

 

Max picks at a hangnail on his thumb, sighing, then brings the finger to his mouth to bite it off. “A little,” he mumbles. “He doesn’t say a lot. But according to him, there’s nothing I can do. Which I’m not taking as an answer, but...it’s all I can get out of him. At least for now. He doesn’t trust me much.”

 

“Why not?"

 

“Everyone he's had before has treated him like shit. Like, made him hurt other people and starved him kind of shit."

 

“Oh!” she gasps, nearly tipping her already unstable stool over. “That's awful!"

 

“Yeah," Max says, scoffing, and fiddles with the cheap little toy top he hadn’t been able to resist trading for, trying to spin it on the rough surface of the table. "He might not ever trust me. Not unless I get him out of that contract."

 

“Well,” Moira says, having finally picked off the tape Charon had put on the frames and taking the pieces apart. “If you disarmed a bomb, I’m sure you can handle a little piece of paper. It can’t be any more difficult than that, can it? Here, lean forward, I’ll fit ‘em better to your head so they don’t fall off.”

 

Max does, sighing. “Thank you. You know, there were a ton of explosives books in my vault, but I don’t think there was one about freeing a two hundred year old slave. I mean, that woulda been _really_ helpful, though.”

 

She laughs, using a thinner strip of tape to reconnect the frames as they rest on Max’s face. “You'll think of something. You know, speaking of books…”

 

“Are you still working on yours?”

 

“Why, gee, I thought you’d never ask!” she replies, grinning. “I am! Have you changed your mind about helping?”

 

“I dunno. I’m exhausted and sad and also half blind.”

 

“Well, there’s gotta be someone in the Wasteland to fix glasses. I’ve seen people with them come through here!”

 

“Probably the Brotherhood. Maybe the lab at Rivet City. I don’t know. That’s a lot of walking for some ‘maybe’s.”

 

“Well,” she says, releasing him. “How that? At least for now. I’ll keep an eye out with the traders that come by for any pairs!”

 

“Thanks, Moira,” Max says, softly, smiling at her, and he shakes his head to be sure the glasses won't come off. “Yeah, that's way better! Thank you!"

 

“Of course, Max, anytime. It’s so good to see you back! You’re the only one who’s actually come in and listen to me for more than a few minutes.”

 

“You’re nice. I like you,” Max says, smiling at her, and she coos and wraps him up in a hug.

 

“Such a sweet little kid, you are!”

 

He stays there for a moment, warm and content against her, and then finally pulls back. “About your book…” He notices her eyes light up immediately, though for once she doesn’t say anything, and lets him finish.

 

“Is there anything I can do that’s...like...close? Around Megaton?”

 

“Well, it just so happens that most of them wouldn’t require too much travel at all! Ooh, this is exciting! We’ll start with the first chapter, which is gonna be about survival…”

 

**x**

 

It’s a few hours later that Charon opens his eyes, and he nearly starts as the first thing he notices is he is covered in blankets, more comfortable than he’s been in...in maybe forever. What...the hell?

 

Disoriented, he sits up, rubbing at his eyes; the blankets fall down around his waist, and his arms and chest are suddenly far less warm, and he pulls them back up around his shoulders as he looks around. Right...Megaton. That’s where he is. And Max...he’s the only one in the world that would have cared enough to do something like this. How strange it is to know an employer might care about him, enough to give him comfort instead of snatching it away for their own amusement like others have.

 

He isn't good. He knows he doesn't deserve comfort. But he appreciates it all far more than Max will ever know.

 

Every thought in his head is replaced with only one as he glances down to the floor, feeling a sharp pang of panic go through him: _where is my armor?_

 

Oh, no. He hadn’t misplaced it, had he? No...no, he very clearly remembered placing it right beside him when he went to sleep! Oh, shit—

 

He jumps to his feet, searching madly around the couch and then through his bag, and the noise must alert Max, because suddenly his employer is coming down the stairs with a concerned look on his face.

 

“Charon? What’s wrong?”

 

“My—”

 

“Your armor!” Max says, and then grins, holding his hands out. “It’s okay! I washed it for you! It’s just drying!”

 

Charon stands up, slowly, and turns to him, taking a moment to process that. “You washed my armor?”

 

Max doesn’t even hear the words. His gaze travels down Charon’s body, something he’s never seen unhidden by armor, and...wow. Charon is...he’s...well, _wow_. His skin looks pretty damn bad, of course, patchy and oddly colored and exposing what’s underneath in more than a few places because he’s a goddamn _ghoul_ , but, while that really should stop Max from staring, it doesn’t. His mouth has gone dry, and he doesn’t know why, but he can’t look away from the muscles of Charon’s bare arms and thighs, and then the bulge in his underwear, and holy _shit_ —

 

Abruptly, Charon sits back on the couch and drags the blankets back over his lap, gripping them tightly, and Max finally blinks, backing up against the wall to support his suddenly weakened legs and stammering, “W-what? It’s outside. I...I put it outside to dry.”

 

“Thank you,” Charon says, looking at the floor, and his voice is even quieter than usual. Max hardly notices, too distracted by the fact that he’s _going to hell,_ and then finally he shakes himself and clears his throat, gesturing at the door.

 

“I should—I should go check it out! The armor! I should look—okay.” His cheeks are flushed bright red as he lowers his head, wincing as he rushes out the door. He nearly slams it behind him, pressing himself back against the wall outside, eyes wide.

 

Oh, _no._ That was...what the hell is wrong with him? It’s bad enough he’s this way to begin with, but to suddenly think of _Charon_ like that? No. No, it’s...it’s too much. Too far. He likes having Charon around, sure, but there’s been nothing else! Well, he likes holding Charon's hand probably a little more than he should, but that was just his need to have some sort of affection, right? He had never thought about Charon like that until just now...until he’d seen Charon practically _indecent_ , and…

 

No way. Max can’t possibly have just been... _attracted_ to him, right? To a ghoul? A _corpse?_ Gross! That...that's gross, right? That definitely isn't normal. Charon had just looked very...nice. Very...fit. Like the men in the old pre-war magazine Max had borrowed from the vault’s library (and never returned, though it’s not like anyone ever noticed) and only brought out when he was very, very sure he was very, very alone. God, the amount of times he’d wished to see someone like that in real life...and now...

 

He relaxes a bit, taking a breath. Okay. So it’s not his fault if his brain—and other things—leapt at the sight of that, or the sudden intrusive thoughts of Charon touching more than just his hand, right? He's always been desperate for someone so...like _that_  to touch him, and he feels a little better to know it’s probably not specifically _Charon_ he wants, but...

 

Unfortunately, Charon is just the first person he's ever seen that much of, but for fuck's sake, why isn't he getting sick at the very idea of some ugly zombie touching him? Why is he wishing he'd been able to look longer? 

 

He scowls and shakes his head; he’s such a fucking _creep!_

 

He sighs when he finds Charon’s armor is still wet, waits until his heart mostly stops racing, and then slowly goes back in. Charon has his back turned to the door, curled up in the blanket that is covering him completely now, and Max feels his face get hot again as he realizes Charon probably had realized what Max was thinking...oh, God…

 

“It’s not dry yet,” he says, trying to be casual, only his voice cracks and jumps up half an octave, and he wants to _die._

 

Charon grunts in response and doesn’t look at him, and Max gently taps his foot against the floor, looking around.

 

“So,” he begins eventually, “my friend, Moira, she’s writing a book, a survival guide. And I said I’d help out with it.”

 

Still, Charon says nothing; Max doesn’t even know why he paused at all.

 

“Would that be okay with you? If we went out later, when your armor’s ready? It’s not too far, it’s the Super-Duper Mart down by the river. I just gotta see if there’s food and medicine there. And I can keep what I find, too! We can always use more stimpaks.”

 

“I will go where you do,” Charon replies, and Max nods.

 

“Right. Okay. Well...I’m just gonna...go upstairs for a little while...and then we can go. Are you hungry?”

 

Charon finally looks over at him, pursing his lips, and then answers, “Yes.”

 

Surprised, Max almost doesn’t know how to respond. _Yes?_ Did he just acknowledge his needs as a human being…?

 

“Really? That’s good! I’ll, uh—there’s a stove over there, and some matches, and a pan! I have that Cram, or some leftover Brahmin meat, or...yeah. There’s some stuff in there. Good?”

 

Charon nods, eyes flicking up to Max’s before going back down to his lap. “Yes. It is appreciated. Thank you.”

 

Max hums happily, rubbing the back of his neck, and he can’t help but think that a smile would suit Charon nicely. That...has nothing to do with any weird feelings suddenly in his stomach. Charon just always looks so damn sad...maybe Max just hasn’t made a joke that’s been funny enough. He'll have to work on that. “You’re welcome. I’ll be back.”

 

Charon nods again, watching Max climb the stairs, and sighs when he hears the bedroom door shut. Being scrutinized by an employer is exactly the last thing he wants to deal with, especially when he's essentially naked, unprotected, and—and he had _known_ he shouldn't have taken his armor off. He’s smarter than that. Exhaustion had definitely gotten the best of him there.

 

Charon had recognized the change in Max's eyes, his face, and Charon had _feared_ it. But his employer had done nothing. And when Charon, so terribly knowingly, had sat down and tried to portray his discomfort, Max had excused himself and...left. He'd done nothing. He'd left Charon alone. Unharmed. _Untouched_.

 

He's survived through so much, through being ordered to carry out so much...is it really possible to be...okay, for once? He's never even considered it an option for himself. To not be hurt? To not have to hurt? It's just...impossible. As impossible as Gob being alive. 

 

But fuck if that hadn't been proved wrong.

 

He gets up after another few minutes, still holding the blanket around himself, and shuffles over to the stove, cooking the leftover meat and quickly downing it with a glass of water. He takes a long look at the Cram, and he really doesn't want it, but he's still very hungry, and, well...he's eaten worse things than some two hundred year old pork.

 

There's a small shelf at the back wall that catches his attention when he's finished, and he tilts his head at the books settled on it. Is...he allowed to touch those? Max had told him to do as he wanted last night, and had thus far not given him any further instructions, so he assumes that is still the order to follow. He sits down and pulls one of the books out, looking it over and brushing the dust off.

 

He listens for a minute, and then, when he's confident Max isn't going to come back down and order him otherwise for at least a little while, he opens the book and starts to read.

 

**x**

 

_"Time once again for your favorite guy on the radio, me, Three-Dog! Well...I'm the only guy on the radio, besides Mr. President Enclave. But that's a horrible channel. Stick with me, kiddies, trust me. Better music, real news, and a voice sweeter than the honey you put on your Sugar Flakes. Or, y'know...somethin' like that. Speakin' of news, I happen to have some for ya! Now, you know the kiddo from Vault 101 took down the Mills a week or so ago, right? Well, that damn well doesn't mean there's no more raiders! I've heard there's been a little influx of them in the south, the west, and hell, probably all over the place. I don't know if 101 pissed 'em off, and they're all comin' out like ants when you kick their nest—or blow it up—or if there's just some crack in a wall of Hell lettin' 'em through, but shit, kids, be careful. Just because 101 got rid of a good few of 'em don't mean you don't gotta stay alert. And remember, these assholes can't be reasoned with. Don't you surrender. They'll take that white flag and strangle you with it. You fight them, you kill them, you live another day. Survival. That's the goal, here, and I'm here every day to remind you that it's a goal worth fightin' for. Until next time, this has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a mess lmfao


	14. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, buuuut I think this chapter will make it better :D
> 
> (I can't say it enough: thank you guys so much for your support!)

It’s about an hour later that Max finally comes back down; Charon stops reading the second he hears the door open, but still keeps his eyes down on the page. He isn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t ordered to do otherwise. Still, the second Max approaches him,  he instinctively tenses, knowing he should have asked, should have put the book back while he had the chance, should have—

 

“Hey,” Max says, a bit loudly, and Charon closes the book.

 

“You ordered me last night to do as I wished. Were your books off limits?”

 

“What?” Max frowns, tilting his head as Charon glances up at him out of the corner of his eyes. “Oh, I—no, you’re fine! I didn’t...that was loud, I’m sorry...I just meant...hi...you’re okay. Everything I have is yours!”

 

Charon takes a slow breath in and nods. “Everything I have is yours,” he echoes, opening up to where he left off, and Max shifts in obvious discomfort, though Charon isn’t quite sure why.

 

“Is that a...a good book?”

 

“It is informative.”

 

“Good, good,” Max says, and then leaves a silence so awkward even Charon finds it unbearable.

 

“Yes,” he replies, and then dares to continue, “My armor?”

 

“Oh, shit, yeah, sorry,” Max says, clearing his throat. “I’ll get it. It’s probably fine now.”

 

Charon doesn’t care much either way, but when Max lays the armor beside him and he finds it is dry, warm, he’s relieved. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome! And you know, after we check out the mart, it’s by the river, so we can take a bath—wait, not us, not, like, together, I—I mean—you—”

 

Charon glares at the floor, one fist clenched in the blanket, and waits for Max to pull himself together into someone at least mildly comprehensible.

 

“You fuckin’ stink, Charon. You’re really gross. I don’t want to be around you. You smell like a dead person. You’re gonna take a bath. That’s what I meant.”

 

Charon almost snorts. He can’t say he wasn’t expecting it, eventually, with how maddeningly clean Max insists everything be, especially himself. It was only a matter of time before he became fed up of the creature he traveled with being, well, how Charon is. Of course, Charon will obey, but not happily. He replaces the book, grabs his armor, and finally stands. His height has always made Max take a step back if they're too close, and this time is no exception; he’s actually a little grateful for the distance.

 

“As you wish,” Charon says. “I shall dress myself and be ready in a moment.”

 

Max is looking at him strangely again, although this time Charon can’t decipher the expression. “Yeah. Do that.” He moves to allow Charon past, and Charon lowers his eyes again and heads to the bathroom.

 

When Max is sure he’s alone, he slumps down in the corner chair with a sigh. He feels better, at least, after what he said; it was rude, yes, but maybe it had convinced Charon that whatever he might have been thinking that _Max_ was thinking...was wrong.

 

Everything is suddenly so wrong. 

 

It isn’t lost on him how uneasy he’s made Charon, either; how Charon had been clutching that blanket to him like it was his lifeline. Max had only been trying to do something good, something nice, and, like always, he fucked up. He doesn’t even know why he tries, anyway; it doesn’t seem to matter. Charon doesn’t look at him any differently than he did when Ahzrukhal still owned him, and Max still doesn’t know how to break the stupid contract. He wishes he did. Then Charon could be free, and leave, and Max wouldn’t have to ever think about him again, or...feel whatever he did. Had; he _had_ felt it, but he isn’t feeling it anymore. He refuses to. He just can’t.  

 

Well...he definitely  _can..._ but he _won't._

 

As they wait for Megaton’s gate to open, Max catches Charon’s gaze go behind them and to the side, as if he’s looking for something, and he taps Charon’s arm, being sure to do so over clothing. If not for Charon’s comfort, than at least for his own sanity.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Charon quickly turns back and shakes his head, and Max huffs as they exit. He knows, anyway, after a minute. What else could Charon be looking towards but the only place they'd been so far?

 

“I thought you said you can’t lie to me.”

 

The aggravation in Max’s voice is very audible, and Charon glances at him. Max is clutching his gun tighter, already unhappy to be back out here so soon, and Charon puts another step of distance between them. His employer doesn’t like him walking behind, despite that being exactly where Charon is supposed to be, but he had learned very, very quickly in his very first employment that it was best to move back and even further away upon hearing that sort of tone. “That is correct.”

 

“Great. So, are you thinking about Gob?”

 

Charon silently curses whatever he's done to make it so clear, and firmly presses his lips together. No. This conversation didn’t happen last night, and it won’t happen now, _ever_.

 

“Seriously, what happened? Hello? Charon! You’re breaking your own rules!”

 

“ _My_ rules? They are not mine, and I have never lied to you. I am allowed to dismiss information that is irrelevant to keeping you safe, and that is what I have done.”

 

“What if I order you? I order you to tell me!”

 

“I may dismiss irrelevant information,” Charon says. Just a brief headache. He grinds his teeth, tightens his hold on his gun strap, pushes through it.

 

“How is it irrelevant? He’s my friend, too!”

 

“I do not have friends.”

 

Max snorts. “Maybe that’s because you’re such a dick.”

 

“I was not created to be a pleasant companion. I was created to kill.”

 

“Well, I don’t want you to kill anyone.”

 

“Then perhaps you should reconsider holding my contract.”

 

“No. Fuck no. What if you went to someone worse?”

 

“Nothing could be worse than your constant speaking,” Charon mutters, and then ducks his head and raises his hand, just slightly, once again like he’s prepared to block a blow not even allowed to be given.

 

Max holds back the angry retort he wants to give, and instead sticks his tongue out at Charon in an attempt to seem more lighthearted than he really feels. “Dick. I have to make up for your stupid ass being quiet all the time. Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll ask him.”

 

Charon only grunts in response. He doubts Max will get anything out of Gob, either. If he doesn’t want to relive it, he can’t even imagine how Gob feels. Beaten within an inch of his life by someone he’d been nothing but kind to...

 

...Maybe Charon does know how that feels.

 

He shakes himself out of his thoughts as they round the side of the mart, and he crouches, waving Max to do the same.

 

“What? What is it?” Max asks, getting a little too close in his attempt to see over Charon’s shoulder, and then he jerks back like he’s been burned when they touch. “Sorry, that was...what’s wrong?”

 

“Raiders. Look up.”

 

Max does, and then he gasps at the sight of a mutilated body hanging from hooks by the door. “Ew!”

 

“Ssh!”

 

“How can anyone live around that? That’s so fucking gr—”

 

“Focus. Do you still wish to go inside?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t...wanna die. I just wanted to help Moira out.”

 

“At your command, I would clear the path for you.”

 

“What, like...alone? No. No way. I’ll...I’ll come with you.”

 

Charon looks him over, doubtful. “Your glasses...you can hardly see. I would be in and out in—”

 

“I said no,” Max says, and Charon closes his mouth with a nod.

 

“Sorry,” Max quickly adds, “I just...I don’t want you to get hurt again, okay?”

 

“My skills are—”

 

“Your skills are fine,” he interrupts, compulsively checking his gun’s magazine despite not having fired a single shot since they left. “They are. I didn’t mean it like that. I just...if you need help…and don’t start with that _more than capable_ bullshit, because not against a whole pack of raiders, you’re not.”

 

“Evergreen Mills was different,” Charon says. “There were dozens, I was—”

 

Max waves his hand. “You don’t know how many there are. I’ll just...follow behind you, okay? And if you need help, I’ll help.”

 

“It is as you wish,” Charon replies. He doesn’t like being treated as if he’s incompetent. He’s a better fighter than Max knows, and he’s being misused. He’s not a companion. He’s not a friend. He’s a weapon, and for the sake of everything, he wishes Max would treat him as such.

 

There’s hardly a handful of enemies inside, and Charon takes them out with no complications. Max stays by the entrance until Charon calls an all-clear, wincing in disgust at the bodies as he steps past them to Charon’s side again.

 

“Good enough?” Charon asks, and Max looks up at him, almost sadly.

 

“I didn’t mean you weren’t, Charon. I’m sorry. Yeah. Good. Thank you.”

 

Charon nods, holstering his gun, and follows Max as he explores what the raiders have laying out, picking the locks of what they tried to hide. It’s nothing particularly exciting; a few grenades, some ammo. A backroom leads to a few stimpaks and, apparently far more important to Max, several Nuka-Colas.

 

“You like these, right?” Max asks, popping the cap off one and handing it to Charon, and Charon stares at it like he has no idea what it is. Max quirks an eyebrow as he struggles to open the second, watching him. “You’re supposed to drink it, I think.”

 

Charon scowls, and Max giggles. “C’mon, what’s wrong? It’s not alcohol!”

 

Charon doesn’t know how to express that he is just confused, because no employer has ever just sat down and shared something with him like he's a friend, so instead he just takes a long drink and nods agreeably.

 

“I love these things. I’m probably gonna die of the rads someday, but whatever. We didn’t have these in the vault. Did I mention the vault was shitty? It was.” He sighs and leans back. “This worked out! I’ll bring all these back, and give some to Moira. I also found snack cakes!” He pulls the little plastic wrapped treats out of his bag, and shakes them so Charon looks up. “Look, I know they’re a billion years old or whatever, but you have to try them, please, they’re so good!”

 

“Must I?” Charon asks, and half expects a comment about him being ungrateful. Instead, Max just clicks his tongue and sighs dramatically, opening it and taking one out for himself.

 

“Your loss. They’re the best thing ever. I’d just eat them, if I could. I found some other stuff in here, too, though. Want a mirelurk cake?”

 

Charon isn’t stupid enough to refuse food twice. He nods, taking it, but only gets to take one bite before there’s the crackling of a speaker, and a man’s voice comes over it, asking for the raiders to let more of them back in and then very quickly realizing something isn't right.

 

“Shit,” Max says, swallowing hard and pulling his bag back on. “We shoulda left, I’m sorry, shit...”

 

“Follow me,” Charon says, leading him out of the room and through another door to hide. Max misplaces his step as the startlingly loud sound of the door being struck open echoes through the empty supermarket, and when he catches himself on his knees, his left hand lands right in the middle of a puddle of gore with a disgusting squelching sound.

 

His unintentional scream of horror is cut off when Charon’s hand claps down over his mouth, other arm grabbing Max’s squirming body and yanking him out of view.

 

Max whimpers, holding his hand up with teary eyes, but Charon doesn’t even look at it. He just glares, shoving his finger in front of his lips as he releases Max and mouthing _‘quiet!’_

 

Max keeps silent, holding his hand out as far as he can and refusing to look at it. Charon inches out from where they are as one raider comes too close, grabbing them and dragging his knife across their throat before they can scream. Max gags, and covers his mouth with his other hand, and Charon sighs, leaving him there in order to take care of the others.

 

He returns to Max's side relatively unscathed within just a few minutes. "It is done."

 

“I need—” Max says, leaving a bloody, smeared hand-print where he’d been bracing himself on the wall, and then stumbles and nearly trips again as he gets to his feet. Charon grabs his arm to support him, and Max turns to bury his face in Charon’s chest. His back against the wall, Charon doesn’t have the room to pull away, but Max doesn’t touch him, doesn’t try to hug him as he expected. His hands remain where they are, and he just _cries._

 

“I-I miss my friend, my friend, Jonas, he was my friend, I miss him, I want him back, Charon, I want him back. There was so much fuckin’ blood, Charon, you don’t—you don’t—you didn’t see, I never—” He trails off into louder sobs, and Charon feels something awfully similar to sympathy at the sound. It almost makes his chest hurt. Uncertain, he rubs his thumb in a small circle where it lays on Max’s arm, and puts his other hand on Max's shoulder.

 

Max responds almost immediately, his cries tapering off into sniffles. Finally he coughs and lifts his head up, wiping his nose. “Sorry...I’m sorry, I am, I’m…”

 

“You did nothing wrong,” Charon says, and Max looks up at him with wide eyes, as if he's never heard that before. He appears dumbfounded, and then far too fond, a tiny smile inching its way onto his mouth. Charon hates the doting gaze Max is giving him, and hates himself for not being able to look away from that smile, for noticing how pink Max's lips are, color almost matching that of the rosy flushing of his cheeks.

 

“Thank you,” Max says at last, stepping back, and Charon breathes again.

 

“That...uh...I just...I just really gotta wash my hand.” He turns to leave without another word, and Charon takes another, deeper breath. His chest really does hurt, now.

 

Max doesn't hesitate in grabbing a bottle of vodka from a counter as he passes, smacking it open on the edge of the counter and drinking it like it’s no different from a cola as he walks. Charon rolls his eyes, because the last thing Max ever needs is to be drunk, but follows Max to the river in compliant silence, watching as his employer slumps to his knees at the shoreline and dips his hands in, scratching them to get the blood off.

 

“I hate it,” Max is mumbling to himself, repeatedly, and Charon starts to kneel beside him, settling a hand on his shoulder again. Instead of leaning into it like Charon expects, though, Max jerks away and shakes his head.

 

“No. No. I don’t want—just—take a bath. Please. Please, just...over there.”

 

Charon stands, unbuckling his armor and retreating to the other side of the dock, keeping his employer in his sight even as he hides himself. Placing his gun and clothes onto the dock, he’s shivering before he ever steps into the water, and the pleasant feeling of radiation seeping into him is overpowered by the discomfort. He quickly scrubs himself down, being careful not to bring any remaining skin off with the dirt, and then hears Max call out to him.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Uh...don’t, like...look over here...I...I can’t go out…’cause I can’t swim. So I’m just gonna...go over here. Behind this rock. Just...just...stay there."

 

Charon wraps his arms around himself, turning to face the other direction. “May I wait on the sand?” he asks after a moment, and raises his voice when there's no response. “Max? _Max?_ ”

 

“Stop yelling! What’s wrong with you?”

 

“I would like to get out,” Charon says, quieter, and he scowls when, quite predictably, Max doesn't hear him. _Stay here_. He doesn’t want to stay here. It's cold.

 

Max takes too long, and Charon is fairly sure he’s over there getting drunk while Charon is going to freeze to death. He grabs onto the dock, grumbling curses to himself, and finally he hears Max's voice.

 

"What're you doing? Why are you still in there? You can look now..."

 

Charon slowly turns, and Max is soaked, enough that it looks like he never took his clothes off at all. Drunken idiot. “May I c-come out?”

 

The stuttering noticeably catches Max off-guard, and he blinks, then tilts his head. “...What? Of course you can."

 

“Y-you...ordered me to stay here.”

 

“I did…? No, I didn’t! Did I? Shit, I’m sorry! Come out!” He turns around, covering his eyes, and Charon only just has the strength to pull himself up onto the dock. He’s exhausted all over again, trembling violently as he clumsily pulls his clothes back on, and his fingers are too numb to even fasten the buckles of his armor. Max returns to his side, grabbing his arm, and gasps.

 

“You’re freezing.”

 

Charon doesn’t respond, because he thinks that's a pretty stupid, pretty obvious thing to say, and Max can actually hear his teeth chattering.

 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” He tugs on Charon’s arm, starting them back off to Megaton. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I said that!”

 

 _Because you're drunk,_ Charon thinks, more than a little annoyed, but he still stays quiet. It’s not like he hasn’t been forgotten about before, and in far more dire situations. He isn’t going to die, he’s sure, and that’s all that really matters.

 

He doesn’t know why he expects Max to go about his business, bringing the information to Moira and leaving his needs untended to when everything Max has done so far would suggest otherwise, but he’s still surprised when Max instead leads them back to his house and sits Charon down on the couch. Murmuring more apologizes, Max grabs a blanket and tries to lay it over Charon’s shoulders, startled when Charon cringes away.

 

“I am not—”

 

“You’re not what? Not cold? You’re still shaking!”

 

“I am...I am n-not…” Not a child, not incompetent, _not worth this._ He reaches out to take the blanket and wrap it around himself, refusing to allow an employer to treat him like this; though since it is Max's own damn fault, maybe he _should_. Max rolls his eyes but says nothing, handing him the rest, and then heats a cup of water over the stove and brings it back to Charon. Charon takes it and cradles it to his chest, and when Max goes up to change into dry clothes, Charon makes the choice to shed his wet armor rather than suffer, because he'll never get warm like this. With the buckles still undone, he easily peels the leather off and drops it to the floor, and then curls the blankets around him again just as Max returns and sits beside Charon with a sigh.

 

“I’m...I’m sorry...I didn’t even think…”

 

“It is nothing,” Charon says, and Max shakes his head.

 

“It’s everything! I just hurt you! I didn't mean to, I really didn't. I...is that violence?”

 

“No. I am not hurt. I-I am alright.” A particularly strong shudder shakes him, and Max reaches for one of his hands, holding it between his own again.

 

“I’m sorry. I am. 'Cause I don't want to hurt you. Are you...a little warmer?”

 

“A bit,” Charon says, but it’s so slight that it’s almost a lie to agree. Even through the blankets he can feel Max radiating warmth, and he involuntarily shifts towards it, placing the cup in his lap and reaching his other hand out. Max takes them both, and Charon’s eyes close; again, the only touch he has ever received that didn't hurt him. Max is so warm and soft and Charon just wants to...he doesn't know what he wants. He half leans over, and he’s sure the cold has gotten to his head and made him ill. Max asks what he’s doing, what he _wants,_ and Charon doesn't respond, because he just doesn't know. He can't think straight.

 

Max is scarcely breathing, watching him, and then finally stammers, “I...I can get closer, if you want, and...m-maybe that’ll...be warmer?”

 

Charon is still quiet, but after a minute of thought he nods, and so Max scoots until he’s leaning against Charon’s side. Charon flinches, and Max immediately sits back up.

 

"Is that...not okay?"

 

Charon looks up at Max through half-lidded eyes. He looks so terribly vulnerable, and Max doesn’t at all like how it feels to be reminded of his power over the other. He doesn't want a slave. He doesn't want a weapon. He just wants a friend. But his last friendship had ended in absolute _disaster_ , and death, and…

 

He feels Charon tug on his hand, just slightly, and he squeezes Charon's in response, curling himself to Charon's side again. Charon lets out a soft, trembling sigh, and Max quickly asks, "Should I move?"

 

“No,” Charon finally says, quietly, and Max nods. He knows damn well he shouldn't be testing Charon, shouldn't be pushing it further, but after a moment he very carefully leans his head against Charon’s shoulder. Charon tenses, but this time he allows it, and when Max moves his finger along Charon’s hand, there’s no protest.

 

Just barely, Charon relaxes. He shouldn't be allowing this. It could so easily lead to something bad. He hasn't forgotten the way Max looked at him when he'd been out of his armor, and he hasn't forgotten that he, his contract, belongs to the same person he just permitted to get closer; too close. He shouldn't be allowing this.

 

But Max's hands are only on his own, his body a pleasant heat only against Charon's side; he's trying to comfort Charon. And never in his long, long life has any employer tried to do that, or wanted to be so close for his benefit, not just their own, or cared about him enough to ask if he was okay, and he just can’t pull away.

 

No. He can. Max has made it perfectly clear that he _can,_ and that's exactly why he won't.

 

“I’m sorry,” Max murmurs again.

 

“It is okay,” Charon replies, and for now, for just the few minutes he's going to permit himself to stay here, it really might be.

 

**x**

 

  
_"Hey, boys and girls, it's Three-Dog here. Got a little update on James from Vault 101. He and a group of scientists from Rivet City are tryin' to, uh...well, I'm not so sure about what it is, actually. But I know that, apparently, they can't get nothin' done until the place they need to work in gets cleared out. Super mutants everywhere. If only there was someone who could show up and help them. Ahem...I said...if only there was someone, maybe two someones, who could go help that Mr. James from Vault 101. Anyone. Anyone at all. Any takers? No? Well, can't say I didn't try. Ol' Three Dog might not be so good at family counseling. Sue me. Anyway, this has been your favorite guy, Three-Dog, givin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	15. Unsteady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm. Love me some drama.

Long after Charon’s trembling fades, they stay where they are, silent. Max decided a while ago that he will stay here as long as Charon wants him to, but he can’t say he isn’t content here, can’t say he isn’t pleased when Charon doesn't move. It’s nice to feel someone so close, to show someone affection, even if it’s not being returned; he never expected it to be, though. He still likes the way this feels. It’s comfortable, and warm...and safe. He feels safe, and he’s happy. He could fall asleep like this.

 

He tilts his head up, looking at Charon’s face longer than he’s ever dared before. Charon’s eyes are closed, and he might even be asleep himself, so Max figures this is probably the best chance he'll get.

 

Despite what the ghoulification process has done to Charon, what it has taken away, he has a handsome face, and Max has been fascinated by Charon's cloudy blue eyes the moment he saw them. Then it had been laced with fear, but he hasn’t really felt afraid of Charon ever since the ghoul had cowered on his knees in front of him with so much terror in those eyes that it had hurt. He thinks that if Charon only looked up, no matter how he controlled his expressions, they would still probably give his emotions away; maybe that’s exactly why he doesn’t.

 

They’re...nice; pretty, even. Maybe Max's new favorite shade of blue. And that’s a terrible conclusion; he already thinks Charon’s body is nice...his voice, too...there’s not much left that Max can force himself to hate. He’s even found the bright red tufts of hair atop Charon’s head cute, almost tempting to touch.

 

Charon is, almost, tempting to touch.

 

But he can’t do that. He would never, ever do that. Not only is it wrong, but Charon wouldn’t want that. He probably wouldn't like it if Max cupped his cheek, or...or brushed fingers down his arms...his sides, even...and he would never want to do the same to Max, to...touch him at all, or...God, the rough, callused texture of Charon’s hands would probably feel...very, very nice against...

 

Without meaning to, he nuzzles his face against Charon’s shoulder as he bites his lip. He wants to pull Charon even closer, he wants to—

 

He squeezes Charon’s hands tighter, and Charon was apparently never asleep at all because he suddenly looks down at Max in the utmost confusion.

 

There’s a horrible moment where Max realizes he can’t just pretend nothing happened, can’t play it off, because there is a _problem,_ and oh, he’s fucked if Charon notices. Then, he panics, scrambling off the couch and turning his back to Charon, one hand over his mouth. Not giving Charon a chance to say anything, he mutters, “I feel sick,” before dashing upstairs and shutting his door, sliding to the floor and holding his hands to the floor beside him so he doesn’t make _it_ worse.

 

Oh, no, no, no, this...this isn’t good. He’s...no. No, no, no, that’s gross, he can’t be thinking like this, he just can’t! A ghoul...he can’t be...what is he doing? What is he feeling? Lust? He can’t be lusting over a ghoul, especially not one that is contractually obligated to obey his every want. That would never be okay, would it? Even if Charon agreed…

 

_If? Why the fuck would he ever agree?_

 

No way. Charon wouldn’t; he won’t. He flinches away every time Max gets within a few inches of him, and that’s not going to change because of them being close this one time. Max wasn't supposed to be thinking about this; he was supposed to have been comforting Charon, warming him up; Charon was _trusting_ him to not do something hurtful. And instead of sitting there like a good, normal person, instead of giving Charon a reason to believe Max won't hurt him, Max had started thinking like  _that_ again. He’s sicker than anyone in the vault ever thought!

 

That immediately kills every unwanted feeling. Before, when he'd lived there with them, he'd thought maybe, just maybe, they were wrong. They'd hated him for being an outsider, for being smaller, weak, and...and whatever he was, but he just hadn't believed he could be that bad. But it's been five weeks since he left, and nothing's gotten better. Instead, he's become a slaver, and now, he apparently wants to _fuck_ that slave. 

 

He drags himself over to his bed, lays down with his face in his pillow, and starts to cry. Everything about him is _bad_. He’s an awful creature, more disgusting than any ghoul. He should have let every raider that tried to kill him win, he should have tried harder when he—

 

“Max?” Charon’s voice comes through the door as he raps the wood with a knuckle. “Do you require anything?”  

 

Max tries to reply, tries to give an explanation, anything, but instead, he reverts back to the only tone he knows how to use when his emotions get the best of him. He chokes on his tears, tosses a shoe at the door, and shouts, “G-go away!”

 

A pause, then; “Where would you like me to go?”

 

“Out! Take a walk! I wanna be alone!”

 

“As you command.”

 

Footsteps retreat down the stairs, and Max curls into the corner of his bed, whimpering apologies for giving a command in the first place before pulling the pillow over his head completely and blocking everything but the sound of his own sobs.

 

**x**

 

Charon stands outside the house for a while, smoking a cigarette and trying to determine exactly what he did wrong. As far as he remembers, he'd only been sitting there, enjoying the quiet, the comfort, trying to burn how it felt into his memory; who knew how long it would be until he received that again? He knew he should've gotten up, and that he was being lazy and above all foolish, but he hadn’t thought Max would mind so much. Then again, Max is...strange. It’s possible Charon himself has done nothing at all. Either way, being commanded to give his employer time to themselves isn’t new; it’s the choice of where to go that he isn’t used to. He doesn’t know Megaton at all, and he has only the caps Max had given him back in Rivet City. Just as that time, he doesn’t know how he should use them, or if at all. They're not his property, after all. He didn't earn them. 

 

It’s dark, now, and as Charon wanders along the catwalks he finds most everything closed. There's a few people sitting at a bar down by the bomb, and Charon scoffs as he looks at the thing. He has no idea how his stupid child of an employer actually did anything about that...maybe he's smarter than Charon gives him credit for. 

 

He starts to make his way down to the bar, his stomach growling, and then stops in front of the saloon at the sound of muffled, drunken speaking coming from inside. He takes a step back and looks up at the sign hanging above the door, and the name makes him itch with anger. The door swings open while he's distracted and definitely in the way, nearly hitting him in the face, and he slams his fist into it to stop the collision.

 

“The fuck?” the man who’d opened it mutters, and then he jerks back at the sight of Charon. “Jesus. Another fuckin’ shuffler! I hate all of you! Disgusting fuckin’...made me lose my appetite, you…ugh.”

 

Charon only has to glare to send the drunk stumbling off down the ramp, casting a few glances over his shoulder as he does. Charon notices then that his hand is gripping the side of the door now, keeping it open, and...no, looking in there would be a very bad idea.

 

_Fuck it._

 

He steps into the doorway, glancing around, and then catches sight of his former friend huddled against the counter, back facing Charon, as the bar owner himself shouts at him.

 

“...scarin’ away me customers with yer face!”

 

Gob replies so softly Charon can’t even hear it, and then, as every customer sitting at the bar watches in unadulterated glee, Moriarty strikes him so hard he staggers sideways, cowering again with an arm up in a feeble attempt to protect himself.

 

Never can Charon recall thinking of Gob as strong, or confident; he was always just a small, accident-prone, but incredibly friendly face that happened to be the only good thing Charon had come in contact with in possibly his entire life. But to see him as frightened and as helpless as _this_ —it ignites something in Charon that he can’t put a name to, and in response he makes a choice so stupid, so reckless, that he can no longer consider himself to be any better than Max.

 

He strolls up to Moriarty, in the middle of a semi-crowded bar of armed patrons, and hits him back.

 

It goes completely silent. Charon catches a look of absolute horror on Gob’s bloody face before Moriarty recovers, grabs Charon’s arm, and tries to twist it. “What in—”

 

Charon moves with him and easily switches their positions. Moriarty staggers, and Charon, against the bar, suddenly feels a knife at the back of his throat, and the barrel of a gun to his head. Only then does anyone speak, and it all culminates at once.

 

“Fuckin’ zombie!”

 

“Feral!”

 

“It’s dangerous, it attacked Mr. Moriarty!”

 

“Put him down!”

 

Charon’s heart pounds in his chest. Two hundred years has taught him better restraint than this. He can’t remember the last time he reacted without thinking the consequences through, especially when it didn’t even concern his _employer’s_ safety. He makes eye-contact with Gob, and suddenly Gob is grabbing at him, getting between him and the crowd. Gob then pushes Charon back and faces his hands out to them all, sputtering, “No, no, no! He’s not feral, please!”

 

Gob is the absolute last person Charon would have thought would come to his aid. He stares, startled, and then grunts as someone sitting on the side stands up and slams their bottle down atop his head. It shatters glass over him and blurs his vision, and he drops to his hands and knees. He blinks hard, swearing, and starts to struggle back to his feet before someone grabs him by his hair and pulls his head back, exposing his throat and pressing a knife into the sensitive skin there.

 

“Stay down, ghoul. Mr. Moriarty, you just say the word,” the man hisses, breath so laden with alcohol that Charon wants to gag, “and I’ll kill it.”

 

“Don’t! Please!” Gob cries, stepping forward like he’s going to try and help again, but then Moriarty comes closer, and Gob chooses to save himself instead, retreating and pressing himself back against the wall, panting.

 

Charon does nothing as Moriarty approaches, stifling a growl in his throat. Even dazed, he knows he's put himself in quite a situation already, and the last thing he needs to do is make it worse.

 

Moriarty narrows his eyes, looking Charon over like he’s a spectacle all his own; there’s a dark bruise already forming on the man’s chin, and Charon feels a spark of satisfaction at the sight.  

 

“And what the hell was that for?” Moriarty finally asks.

 

Charon doesn’t answer. The man holding him yanks harder on his hair, and still he refuses to make a sound. He can feel blood running down his forehead now, over his brow and into one of his eyes; it's no doubt making him look even more monstrous than usual. 

 

“What?” Moriarty cups a hand behind his ear and tilts it down towards Charon. “I didn’t hear ye. Ye best answer 'fore I have my loyal customer here slit yer—”

 

“Don’t…”

 

Moriarty whips around and grabs Gob by the upper arms, shaking him with what must be all his strength. Gob goes limp and whimpers, flopping around in the man’s hands like he’s _dead_. “I swear to God, shut yer ugly fuckin' mouth before I—”

 

Charon bares his teeth and snarls, too loud. It’s another completely involuntary reaction, and Moriarty immediately stops, releasing Gob, who stumbles back with a hand on his head.

 

“It’s him?” Moriarty asks, and then laughs when Charon only glares at him. “Is it? That's what made ye so angry?” He raises his hand as if to strike Gob, and though this time Charon keeps steady, Moriarty still grins and looks back at Gob.

 

“Ye know each other, do ye? He’s yer friend?”

 

Gob’s wide eyes briefly flicker to Charon, and then he shakes his head. “N-no, sir, I-I—sir—he’s—I don’t—”

 

“Oh no? Then ye won’t mind if I have him beat t’ death right in front of ye?"

 

Gob somehow goes paler, squeaking more incoherent nonsense in response. Charon clenches his fists, more than prepared to fight, and then the door slams open and the voice of the Sheriff calls over the din, “Colin!”

 

The noise settles down, and so do the customers. Gob slides down to the floor and cradles his knees to his chest, trembling, and Charon is shoved forward and released. 

 

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doin’?” Simms demands, and even the scum in this bar make a little path for him to get closer to the counter.

 

“The ghoul attacked me,” Moriarty says, as Charon rises to his feet and brushes himself off, as if the only damage he’s gotten is a little dirt on his clothes instead of the wound he’s really starting to feel at his hairline. He steadies himself against the counter, then straightens up and wipes blood from his eye.

 

“Where’s Max?” Simms’ asks, and Charon still remains silent.

 

“Max?” Moriarty cuts in. “Right...said somethin’ about this one bein’ his bodyguard.”

 

“Max said he would keep an eye on him, so he didn't do something like this.”

 

“Well, if ye find ‘im and he's dead, it’s by the hands of this feral right here.”

 

It might be a threat; it might not be. The contract clearly can’t tell the difference, because it pulls Charon towards the man. It would be so easy to kill the bastard while he is focused on Simms—

 

A cold hand closes down onto his, and he startles. He looks down at Gob, meets the other’s desperate gaze, and then realizes he has taken out his knife. The second thing he notices is that Gob's hand is bleeding; he's so desperate to stop Charon, to keep the man that abuses him alive, that he's grabbed onto the blade itself. 

 

“Please,” Gob whispers, tears welling up in his eyes; one of them is already bruising. “Please. Go. Please.”

 

Charon doesn’t understand, searching Gob's face for an answer. He would have given anything to kill the ones who had hurt him; now, he’s in the perfect position to do this, to do something good for Gob after everything, and Gob is refusing? Protecting this monster? Is there some sort of contract involved in this, too? Or does he simply not want Charon’s help?

 

Gob has no authority over him, but Charon finds himself obeying anyways. He sheathes his blade, takes a step back, and then starts towards the door. No one stops him. Simms calls his name, but he ignores it, opening the door anyway.

 

Someone tosses another bottle at him, and it breaks against his back. It knocks the breath from him and causes him to stumble, and he scowls, whipping around with every intent to shoot the bastard who’d thrown it just as the door slams shut in his face.

 

The sudden silence is jarring. He releases his gun and grabs onto the railing behind him as his vision tilts. Blood is still steadily running from his head, and he presses a hand over the gash, hissing in pain. Bastards. And he himself is a complete moron for starting it all. It’s his own damn fault.

 

Max is sitting on the couch again when Charon comes through the door, taking one look at Charon and giving a yelp as he rushes over to grab his arm.

 

“Charon! What happened? Are you okay? Oh, God, what happened?”

 

“A fight,” Charon replies tiredly, and allows Max to lead him to sit with no resistance. He winces, touching his head again, and Max kneels on the cushions beside him, mimicking the expression.

 

“God, this looks really bad...hold on, let me get a stimpak. Or—water?"

 

"Water will suffice. I will live."

 

“Yeah, if we deal with it, you will.” Max sighs and retrieves the little lunch box he’s started carrying his medical supplies around in, shuffling through it for what he needs. He tilts the bottle of radiated water onto a bit of gauze, then holds it out. “Here, just move your hand, I got it.”

 

Reluctantly, Charon obeys, flinching as Max presses it against his head.

 

“Who hurt you?”

 

There’s really no point avoiding the truth; his head hurts enough as it is. “Someone at the saloon.”

 

“The saloon? What, did you get into a fuckin’ bar fight? Are you drunk?”

 

“No. I...struck the man who owns it.”  

 

“You hit Moriarty?" Max laughs, and then gives Charon's shoulder a little nudge with his fist. "Nice."

 

Charon stares down at where Max had just touched, then up at him again. “You do not wish to retaliate? I should not have done such a thing.”

 

“Are you kidding? I told you I fucking hate him. Maybe he’ll die from it.”

 

“Is that an order?”

 

“No. It’s not an order.”

 

Charon pulls away, taking the cloth from Max and turning the other direction.

 

Max pauses, clasping his hands in his lap. “Why...did you hit him?”

 

Uncertain, Charon hesitates for a moment until he’s forced to answer. “I saw him strike someone who could not fight back.”

 

He doesn’t know why he worded it like that. Max isn’t stupid. And sure enough, Max lowers his head, shakes it, and then says, “It’s not fair. It’s not.”

 

Charon waits, expecting Max to continue, but he doesn’t; he just sits there, looking as if _he_ is somehow a victim in this, and Charon lets out a grunt of anger.

 

“Why must you misuse me?” he finally hisses, glaring. “It is what I am for! Order me, tell me, I will—”

 

“Just stop. They’d hate me. I’d be kicked out, probably, and this is the only place I have!”

 

“You are a selfish child.”

 

“Fuck you! This is my home!”

 

“It is not Gob’s,” Charon says, voice low, and then scowls when Max throws the lunchbox at him, scattering syringes and gauze over the floor.

 

“You're such a dick! You make it sound like I don’t care about him! I do! I fucking do! You act like _you_ care, but he’s more scared of you than he is of Moriarty!”

 

Charon swallows hard and quickly looks down, ashamed; there's no doubt about that. Every time he looks at Gob, he can see the smaller ghoul broken and bleeding under him, pinned down and crying, _begging,_ and now—now Gob's enduring the same thing every day. Charon had, albeit unknowingly, sent him into a life of constant pain...and had very, very knowingly sent so many others to the same fate...

 

Max doesn’t miss the reaction, and he stands up, crossing his arms. “Yeah. What’s wrong with you? What did you do to him? You won’t tell me ‘cause it’s bad! You hurt him, too, didn't you? He probably hates you!"

 

Anger blinds Charon, and in an instant he's on his feet and has Max cornered, hitting his fist into the wall beside Max's head. "Do you really wish to know what I did to him?" he hisses, and Max can barely move, let alone form a response, so Charon continues.

 

"I did hurt him. I broke his bones. I beat him until he stopped crying, until there was so much blood I could not fully get the stains off the floor." He relishes the fear the words spark in Max's eyes, baring his teeth. "It was an order. I follow orders. You are supposed to be giving me orders. I am meant to fight, to kill, not to sit around and clean up after your petty tantrums. If you believe telling me he hates me will hurt me, you are wrong. I feel nothing. I feel _nothing_."

 

"Charon..." Max's voice is shaking, broken. "I'm...I'm sorry...I didn't know..."  

 

"That is because I am required to tell you nothing unless it pertains to the contract, to your safety. This is the last time I will say it. Make use of me or sell my services to another."

 

"No, no, Charon...I want you, I—" Max reaches out, touches Charon's cheek, and Charon flinches. He only then realizes how close they are, and he quickly releases Max and backs up, eyes going wide when Max follows. Just like that, he no longer has the upper-hand in the situation, and he needs to escape.

 

"You're my friend, I want you to stay," Max says, stopping when he notices Charon putting even more distance between them. "I want you to stay safe! You're safe with me! I didn't mean to be mean, I swear, I'm just...I'm tired. I promise you, I'll talk to Simms in the morning, okay? I'll get Gob help. I will."

 

Charon slowly nods, gaze lowered to the floor again. "That was out of bounds, just then. You are entitled to punish me."

 

"Do you have to say that every time?" Max asks, and Charon nods again.

 

"Just...just do what you want. I...I need to go to bed before I say something stupid again. I don't know why I get mean when I'm tired, okay? I just...I just do. I'm...gonna go. Goodnight."

 

Charon only raises his head after Max has trudged up the stairs and shut himself inside his bedroom. Then he blinks hard and gets to his knees to pick up the medical supplies, placing them back in the box and returning that to Max’s bag.

 

He hears Max’s soft crying again, but this time he ignores it. Instead, he sits to clean their weapons, relieved when, after a while, it finally goes silent. He settles back on the couch when he's finished, pouring more water on the gauze to hold to his head again. It isn't bleeding much, but the damn thing just won't _heal_ , and it might hurt even worse than when he received it.

 

Eventually, after some thought, he grabs the keys by the door and steps outside, locking it and placing them safely in his pocket before wandering down towards the bomb. It's about the only good source of radiation he'll get here, and he's no use to anyone like this. Max won't mind him being gone for a few minutes. Or he will. Charon doesn't care; not as long as his employer is not in danger.

 

Making sure no one is around, he kneels beside the water and leans to dip his head in, wincing. It's much easier to enjoy the sensation of radiation when he's not soaked and cold, and he closes his eyes for a moment.

 

"...Charon?"

 

Charon actually startles so much he nearly falls in. He reaches out to brace himself, then quickly stands and stumbles back, staring down at _Gob,_ who is laying down in the deepest part of the puddle with only his head showing. Charon takes a breath, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, and then moves another step back.

 

"Gob," he says, and the name sticks in his throat, chokes him like a rope around his neck. "I...will go."

 

"You don't have to," Gob says, voice still so quiet it's nearly a whisper, and he sits up with a grimace. "Are...are you okay? Your...head."

 

Charon doesn't have to leave? Of course he does. Gob doesn't want to speak to him. He shouldn't. And above all, he shouldn't give a damn if Charon's got a little headache.

 

"I am okay," Charon replies anyway, and is half convinced by now that this is a dream. "Are you?"

 

Gob sighs, shakes his head, but still mutters, "Yeah." He tilts his chin to look up at Charon, and the moonlight reveals bruising that was not there when Charon last saw him just hours before. Charon had made it worse; he had made Moriarty beat him. He'd made it worse. He'd—

 

"How've you been?"

 

Charon freezes. His mouth opens, then closes, and then he finally manages to force out, "What?"

 

Gob smiles, weakly, and lays back down, groaning softly. Charon has to wonder just how often Gob comes down here to heal, and how many times it gets so bad he _can't_.

 

"It's...it's been a long time. Fifteen years, right? You...still look the same."

 

A scoff is all that Charon can manage. He sits down at the edge of the water, stares at the ground, and then clumsily lights a cigarette with unsteady hands. He needs something to do, something else to focus on.

 

He ends up dropping it straight into the puddle before finishing his first drag.

 

"Is Ahzrukhal dead?" Gob asks after a moment, somehow even softer, and Charon rubs at his head.

 

"He is."  

 

"That's good," Gob says, nodding. "The kid's good. Nice. Yeah?"

 

Well...with far more bearable anger than any before. "Yes."

 

Charon can feel Gob's eyes boring into him, and he has to force himself not to cringe.

 

"Did you check for glass?"

 

Frowning, Charon looks over at him. "I am sorry?"

 

"Glass. In your head. It's still bleeding, I can see it. Probably why it won't heal."

 

 _Oh_. Charon reaches up to touch the wound, hissing in pain, and can't feel a damn thing with his fingers. He needs tweezers, a mirror; he can't do it here. And he needs to leave, anyway. This is too strange. It's...it's unreal, and he has to get away, right now.

 

He stands, and Gob flinches, making a wave that laps against Charon's shoe. Charon looks down at him, bites his lip, and steps back. "I..."

 

"Charon..."

 

"Goodbye," Charon says, awkwardly, and quickly turns around.

 

"Goodnight, Charon," he hears Gob say, sounding so awfully sad, and it's all Charon can do to ignore it as heads back up to the house.

 

**x**

 

_"Hey there, kiddies. It's Three-Dog once again. Not many excitin' things happenin' out here in the good ol' wasteland these days. Got a few more vertibird sightin's, but, hell, when don't we have those, huh? Anythin' to make us fear 'em a little more, I think. Hear that James is still workin' on a way to get where he needs to be goin'...Brotherhood's taken out a whole shit-ton of mutants, lately, but there's always three shit-tons more...slavers're still slavin', raiders are still raidin'. The usual. Miss havin' the good deeds of Mr. 101 to talk about to brighten up all our days. I'm sure somethin' worth reportin' will happen soon enough...it always does. But until then, this has been the one and only Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some music..."_


	16. From Blood and Fire

Charon doesn’t know why his employer needs him to come along to see the Sheriff the next morning, but he quietly follows Max out just as the sun is starting to rise, trying not to shiver in the early morning air. He supposes he’s known Max long enough that should expect Max to make _everything_ difficult, though; it’s just what Max does. It’s incredible an employer of his is even trying to do something good; while he hopes it improves Gob’s situation, the very attempt deepens the odd admiration he’s been feeling towards Max—his employer, his _employer._ Max is just another employer, and in a few years (or even sooner with how stupid he is) Charon will forget him and be with someone else.

 

They catch Simms just as he's leaving his house, and he adjusts his coat, nodding in greeting and then looking Charon over. It's a cautious gaze, and while Charon doesn't see any concern mixed in there, Simms still says, "Morning. How's your head?"

 

Charon doesn't know what in his stance gives the man the idea he's going to be any more friendly than last night. When he crosses his arms to further portray his irritation, Simms still doesn't look as uncomfortable as Charon would like, though he does turn his attention back to Max.

 

"I'm sure he told you about what he did, right?”

 

"Yeah…” Max says, awkwardly, and Charon can already tell this isn't going to go well.

 

“And it won’t happen again? One more outburst like that and I ain’t gonna have any choice but to send him on out of here.”

 

Max glances back at Charon, clenching his fists, and Charon backs away from the anger in his expression, looking down in a pathetic attempt to diffuse it. However, Max isn't speaking to him as he snaps, “Should I just have Moriarty beat him, too? That'll teach him, won't it?"

 

Charon looks up again as he realizes his employer isn't upset at him. Simms squints, tilting his hat down to either avoid the rays of sunlight now shining in his face or to hide his expression; based on his sudden tenseness, Charon guesses the latter.

 

_Coward._

 

“Now, that ain’t what I meant,” Simms says, and Max’s eyes are watering as he looks up at the man, sniffling.

 

“Why not? That's what you think they deserve, right?"

 

Simms purses his lips and shakes his head. "No."

 

"Then why do you let him do that to Gob? I know you know about it! Why doesn’t anyone do anything? He didn’t do anything wrong!”

 

There's a long, awkward silence, and Simms’ voice is strained as he replies, "I've talked to him."

 

"To who?”

 

“Colin.”

 

"Okay, and...? What did he say? What did you say?"  

 

“Look,” Simms says, almost interrupting, “it ain’t my business what a man does on his own property. Colin owns the bar, and—”

 

“He owns Gob!”

 

“No. Gob is his employee.”

 

Charon reacts with a disgust he can’t hide, scowling, and lets out a low growl.

 

“I really am serious, you need to watch him,” Simms says, before Max can respond. “And Colin said he’ll need an apology before either of you are let back in there. But...do you really want to go back? Town’s just fine without havin’ to spend your time in that hole.”

 

Max is heartbroken, still holding back tears with a crackling voice. “You’re...you’re really not gonna do anything, are you? What's wrong with you?”

 

“Ain’t nothin’ I can do, son. I never even once heard that boy complain.”

 

“You barely even go there! He can’t complain ‘cause he’ll get hurt if he does!”

 

“There’s nothing I can do,” Simms repeats. “I’m sorry. Take care of this one. Have a good morning.”

 

“Please,” Max says, voice barely above a whisper. Charon’s heart wrenches, and he doesn’t know how Simms only tips his hat as a bid farewell and goes on his way.

 

"Fuckin'..." Max hangs his head and covers his face with his hands, and Charon waits patiently until finally Max sniffs and wipes his eyes and looks up again.

 

“I tried,” he mumbles. “I did. You can’t hate me. I tried.”

 

Charon could argue that no, Max really _didn’t_ , but instead he merely gives a nod. There isn’t a point; his employer is always correct, and even this small effort has been impressive. Max breathes deeply, trying to calm himself, before waving his hand in a gesture for Charon to follow him, and not back towards the house.

 

“Where are we going?” Charon asks, hoping he doesn’t already know, and Max sighs.

 

“To say sorry.”

 

“I will not!” Charon says, stopping, and Max doesn’t even glance back.

 

“Yes. You have to. Come on.”

 

Charon only moves because of the order, crossing his arms. “I do not understand.”

 

“What do you want, Charon? I can’t go back until you say sorry, and that means I can’t see Gob. He told me I’m the only person who treats him right in this whole town! I can’t just not go back!”  

 

After a moment of thought, Charon has to admit it’s the right thing to do. Gob doesn’t deserve to have the one good thing he has taken away because of Charon’s impulsive mistake. Just because it’s right, however, doesn’t mean it won’t pain him more than disobeying would. Goddamn bastard, that Moriarty. He should have killed him when he had the chance last night.

 

The saloon is empty when they enter, and Max frowns, looking around before calling out, “Gob?”

 

It’s Nova that responds, pulling the curtain to one of the backrooms out of her way, a half-finished cigarette between her fingers. “Hey there, Max-y,” she says, smiling softly. “We’re not open for another hour.”

 

Max bumps into Charon in his haste to backtrack towards the door. “I’m sorry, it was open, I—”

 

“Sssh. If you’re quiet, you can stay. I went out to get cigarettes, but Colin’s still asleep.”

 

“Where’s Gob?”

 

Nova takes a long drag and sighs it out, then gestures to where she had come from. “I let him go back to sleep down here. It was a long night. Told him I’d take care of his chores.”

 

“Is he okay?”

 

Nova gives him a small, sad smile. “Yes.” She says nothing else, but her expression reads _'for now'_ loud and clear.

 

Max kicks his foot against the floor and bites his lip. What can he do? He can tell Charon to kill the man, and have it be over. But then he won’t have a home, and Charon could be killed— _Gob_ could be killed. He just can’t risk that. He has to find another way. There has to be another way, right?  

 

“Okay,” he finally replies. “Okay. Good. I...we should probably come back later.”

 

“If you want to talk to him, yeah. He’s not too pretty in the morning.” Her gaze goes to Charon, then, sweeping over him several times. She takes one last drag of her cigarette and then stubs it out on the wall. “You’re Charon, aren't you?”

 

Charon did not expect to be addressed. He tries to remember if he has ever seen her before, comes up with nothing, and then realizes it’s no doubt Gob who has mentioned him, along with every horrible thing Charon did to him. He almost doesn’t want to respond, almost wants to shake his head, but finally he swallows hard and says, “I am.”

 

He prepares himself to block a strike, to back away from her spitting at him; instead, she smiles softly and says, “Gob talked a lot about you.”

 

Completely taken aback, he only nods again and then takes a step back, tilting his head in Max’s direction. “It may be best that we leave.”

 

Her smile remains, though it has become a bit sadder. Max hugs her goodbye and then leads Charon out, and when the door closes, Charon almost regrets not asking what she had meant by that. Gob had talked about him? Why would he mention Ahzrukhal’s pathetic slave that had nearly beat him to death? And stranger still, why would she smile at him? He had done nothing good enough to warrant that—he's never done anything good at all. He simply isn’t a good person. He’s really not a person at all; he’s the flawless product of an experiment in how truly awful someone could be forced to be, and fuck if he doesn't deserve everything that's ever happened to him because of it.

 

“You were Gob’s friend,” Max murmurs when they return to his house. It's the first thing that’s come from either of them the entire walk back, and it's not a question.

 

Charon stops. Gob's...friend? Although Charon had never spoken a word to him, Gob had still risked being further ostracized by the residents of Underworld with his odd kindness towards Charon, and had done it happily. If he could even feel such a thing anymore, Charon might think he eventually started to  _care_ about Gob, and that’s why Ahzrukhal had needed to put an end to it. Gob had cared so much about Charon, and for no reason, but...had he really been a friend? Charon hasn’t had a friend before.

 

And if a friend would be someone that cares about him...does that make _Max_ his friend?

 

No. No, Max is his employer, and Gob is...Gob is...he’s…

 

“It does not matter anymore,” Charon says, and then makes his way to where he knows he will not be bothered, closing the bathroom door and glancing into the shard of what used to be a mirror still hanging above the sink.

 

He sees a lot of things, but he doesn’t see anyone worth caring about.

 

**x**

 

Charon has noticed Max sleeps a lot, and still never seems to feel rested. At every chance, he’ll go up to his room and come back down hours later with a groggy expression and no less bruising under his eyes, and Charon starts wondering if there’s something wrong with him. When Max returns to his side later that afternoon after yet another nap, sitting beside him on the couch, Charon sets the book he’s been reading down and turns to his employer.

 

“Are you ill?”

 

Max squints up at him and thinks for a second. “I...no, I don’t...I don’t think so. Why? Do I look that gross?”

 

“You look tired,” Charon says, and Max sighs.

 

“I am.”

 

“But you are always sleeping.”

 

Max curls up on his side, feet tucked beside Charon’s thigh. “Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like I need to sleep for a month.”

 

“Perhaps you should see the doctor…”

 

“No. He’s a dick and he doesn’t know anything. I already know why. It's just always like this.”

 

“Why?” Charon asks, and, as he should have expected, Max doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have a right to know anything personal about his employer, and he knows that, but...he’s never genuinely _cared_ before. 

 

Max hums softly, sleepily, and Charon risks a glance over at him to find his eyes are closed. Well...he can’t be punished for what Max doesn’t know, right? Giving into his curiosity, he allows his gaze to travel down Max’s body to his legs, his feet, then back up, taking in what he usually can’t now that Max is only in underclothes. Max’s skin is even paler under where armor usually is, and yet there are still freckles scattered around; Charon vaguely wonders if they’re everywhere. His employer’s shirt is hiked up at his waist, revealing some of his hip and stomach, and Charon’s gaze lingers there much too long.

 

His employer is very, very pretty, and this isn't the first time he's realized it. He quickly grabs for his book again, desperate for anything else to focus on. Max is a tiny, naive little child, two hundred years younger than Charon; Charon has been perfectly crafted from blood and fire in order to hurt, not to waste time with his employer leaning against him, holding his hand...making him feel human, for once. His entire life he’s found touch degrading, something to be avoided at all cost, and now, _now,_ not only does he want Max to get close again, but Charon wants to touch him—his hip, his face, his neck—wants to feel the softness of Max's smooth, undamaged skin under his ruined fingers. There’s a curl of hair hanging down over Max's face, and when Charon notices it he has an almost irresistible urge to reach out and brush it away, to cup Max’s cheek and—he just—he wants—

 

He stands up, forcing himself to move away before his thoughts become even more sinful. He’s just...confused. That has to be it. He had always been confused, at least for the first few times, when employers had pretended to be different, but Max...Max _is_ different, and Charon is mistaking relief for something else, something more dangerous.

 

He needs to stop. If he keeps this up, this weakness, this too-obvious desperation for just the slightest amount of affection, he might ruin everything, might get more than he wants, might give Max ideas that Charon doesn't want him to have.

 

Max is looking up at him in what is unmistakably disappointment when Charon glances back; Charon knows Max wanted him to stay, and that’s exactly why he had to move. He grabs for his pack of cigarettes and gestures to the door. “I believe it is late enough now to go.”

 

“Oh yeah…” Max says, rubbing his eyes. “Could use a drink.”

 

Charon rolls his eyes and then shakes the pack. “May I wait outside for you?”

 

“Do what you want,” Max says as he yawns, stretching and then finally getting to his feet and dragging himself upstairs.

 

Charon watches, glancing Max over, and knows he can absolutely _not_ do what he wants.

 

When they arrive at the bar, Gob smiles weakly at them in greeting, quietly murmuring, “Hello.” There’s already a new bruise on his brow, and Max has to deliberately ignore it.

 

“Hi," he says, looking over his shoulder to see Charon staying by the door, surveying, and probably avoiding Gob.

 

“Where’s Moriarty?”

 

Gob’s smile falters upon hearing that it’s not him Max is here to see, and he gestures with a sigh at the door to Moriarty’s office. “On his terminal, probably. Damn thing.”

 

"Sorry," Max says, reaching for Gob's hand, and Gob flinches, quickly pulling away, shaking his head.

 

"What...what's wrong?"

 

Gob gestures with his chin towards a table to his left, and Max glances over to a group of men he doesn't recognize, but that makes him feel uneasy.

 

"They insulted Nova just for talking to me. Don't get caught up in that. Not worth it."

 

Max frowns, but before he can reply someone shouts for Gob to give them a refill, and Gob scrambles off to do so. Max meets eyes with Charon and waves him over, pushing past several customers to get to the back door. He considers knocking, then rolls his eyes and shoves it open. "Mor—Mr. Moriarty? We're here to—"

 

"Ah, come to apologize, have ye?" Moriarty interrupts, smirking, leaning back in his chair. "Have ye, ghoul?"

 

In a defeated tone, Charon mutters, "Yes."

 

"Really? Well, close the door, then. I'd like to hear this loud and clear."

 

Charon doesn't move. He doesn't have to follow this man's orders. Max closes the door for him, and he scowls when Max nudges him forward.

 

"He's sorry, and so am I," Max says. "Good?"

 

Moriarty picks something out of his teeth with a finger, then crosses his arm, making himself comfortable. "No. Not good. Not even close. I wanna hear _him_ say it."

 

Charon growls, takes a breath, and then, as calmly as he can, grits out, "I apologize."

 

Moriarty clicks his tongue and cups a hand behind one of his ears. "What was that?”

 

When Charon only glares, tempted to take his knife and gut the fucker, Max elbows him. "Charon."

 

"Yeah, _Charon_ ," Moriarty says, tilting his head, shit-eating grin still plastered on his face. The attitude reminds Charon too much of Ahzrukhal, and he absolutely hates it.

 

"I'm waiting."

 

This is _agonizing._ Charon shakes his head, lowers it, and then grumbles a bit louder, "I apologize."

 

"Oh? And fer what?"

 

"You're being an asshole," Max snaps, and Moriarty scoffs.

 

"I am? He's the one who attacked me! Lucky I didn't have 'im killed.”

 

"You struck Gob," Charon says. "Should you not be apologizing to him?"

 

"Yer a mouthy thing, aren't ye?" Moriarty laughs, and Charon takes a jerky step forward, a hand on his knife.

 

“Oh, look at that,” Moriarty says, gesturing, and Max gasps, smacking Charon’s hand away from it.

 

“Can’t have a pet that’s untrained in me bar. Sorry.”

 

“He’s not my pet!”

 

“Do I really need to call the Sheriff to have ye removed, lad? I’d hope ye wouldn’t make me do that.”

 

“He said he’s sorry!”

 

“I don’t think he meant it,” Moriarty says, turning back to his computer and starting to type again. “No, didn’t sound like it.”

 

Max pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh. “Okay...so what do you want?”

 

Moriarty thinks for a moment and then smiles. “I want him to get on his knees and say it.”

 

“No,” Charon snarls, and when Moriarty shrugs, gesturing for them to leave, he turns towards the door and opens it. Not that. He simply won't do it.

 

Gob cowers, stumbling back from the doorway, and then, when the expected violence does not come, he glances up and meets Charon’s gaze. Anything that Charon had once seen in Gob’s eyes, his spirit, his happiness, is completely gone, replaced with a hopeless emptiness. Gob opens his mouth, as if to say something, and then simply lowers his head. 

 

“Charon,” Max mutters, pushing at Charon as he tries to get by. “It's fine. They’ve got beer at the Lantern. Or you can go home. I don’t care."

 

Charon steps aside and watches Max gently touch Gob’s shoulder as he passes, murmuring something into his ear. Gob looks so awfully confused, turning to reply, but Max doesn’t stay long enough for him to.

 

"Max?" Gob murmurs, probably only loud enough for Charon to hear, and then he jumps a foot into the air when the man in the seat closest to him shouts right into his ear.

 

"Ghoul! You hear me? Another beer! Get a move on!" 

 

"Yessir, of course," Gob says, strained, and ducks past Charon to get the drinks. He's still staring at the door, like he expects Max to come back, and Charon thinks for a moment before gritting his teeth, taking a breath, and then going back into the room and slamming the door shut.

 

“Thought I told ye to get the fuck out,” Moriarty says, standing up and approaching him, and Charon’s hand goes to his knife again. No witnesses. He could so easily…

 

He swallows his pride, removes his hand, and drops to his knees.

 

Moriarty is visibly overcome with delight, clapping his hands together. “I didn’t really think ye would, zombie! Good job! Halfway there, now!”

 

Charon growls softly and glares at the ground, shaking his head and clenching his fists. “I apologize for attacking you.”

 

"And...it won't happen again, will it?"

 

"It will not."

 

“There's a good boy,” Moriarty says, patting Charon’s head, and Charon flinches violently, scrambling backwards. He hadn’t expected to be touched, to be dehumanized in a way so similar to past employers, and it throws him off, turns his breaths into panting. He gets to his feet, slowly, and steps back while Moriarty watches, quirking an eyebrow.

 

“Really hurt yer pride there, did I? Yer lookin’ a little sick. Good. Tell Max-y boy he’s welcome back, but ye better keep yer hands to yerself. And don't be distractin' my bartender anymore. Understood?”

 

Charon turns without acknowledging the words and steps out, ignoring the swearing he gets for pushing customers out of his way. He needs to get _out,_ he feels trapped, he—

 

Nova gently grabs Charon’s arm by the door, pulling him closer, and Charon jerks free. “Do not touch me,” he spits, looming threateningly over her, and she rolls her eyes in disinterest.

 

“Come back after closing,” she says, “and leave the shit attitude behind, okay?”

 

Charon blinks, startled, and takes a step back. Nova casts a long look over to her right, and Charon follows her gaze, finding Gob glancing over at them in between serving customers; the second his and Charon's eyes meet, Gob doesn’t look up again.

 

“I cannot,” Charon quickly replies, shaking his head, and then he leaves.

 

By the time he's recovered enough to think straight and remember where the Brass Lantern is, Max is already sagged over one of the tables inside with an empty glass and a bottle of vodka before him.

 

“That is enough,” Charon says, reaching to take the bottle, and Max groans, smacking Charon’s hand.

 

“No. It’s mine.”

 

“No, and do not hit me,” Charon says, scowling as he grabs the vodka and slams it onto another table. “You are allowed to return to the saloon.”

 

“What? But...why? I didn’t...did you?”

 

Charon takes Max’s arm and starts attempting to pull him to his feet. “I regretfully did what I believed was necessary.”

 

“Oh, Cheryl, you are just...you are so nice! Wish I’d known that before, they got...better beer, and…”

 

“I did not do it so you could get drunk!" Charon hisses, and finally picks his employer up when it’s clear walking won’t be successful. “I did it for Gob, so he will not be alone. It was my error, and I have fixed it."

 

“Awww,” Max coos, wrapping his arms around Charon’s neck, “you...you do like him. See? Friends. Friends are good.”

 

"He is not my friend. I do not know why..."

 

"...Why...what?"

 

Charon purses his lips. "I believe he wishes to speak with me."

 

"Oh...that's nice. It's nice. He's nice. You're nice."

 

Charon huffs and doesn’t respond, and Max decides to take the moment of silence to nuzzle against Charon’s chest. Charon shivers and nearly trips, and he isn’t sure whether he wants to pull Max closer or drop him to the ground.

 

“You know what...what’s weird, too?” Max mumbles, thankfully going still. “I keep...keep hearin’ this...I’ve been listenin’ to this...remember those guys who tried to shoot you? The...the not-Brotherhood peoples? Yeah, they...I think they need help. I keep...hearin’ them on my Pip-Boy. Should we...should we help ‘em?”

 

“They want me dead,” Charon points out, and Max hums.

 

“You...convincing argument. But...maybe...they'll like us, if we help? But still...I heard. And...and I’m gonna feel guilty, you know? You know? If I don't try. I...I thought I could stay here forever, but...but I’m fuckin’ bored, and...and now that I got you, you’ll...keep me safe, and...you could teach me more stuff, and…can't stay. Don't like it. Too much...too much time to think.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Charon grunts, struggling to open the front door, but it proves impossible with Max in his arms. Wadsworth ends up having to do it for him after a minute or two of him using his boot to knock, and he gives the robot a small nod while he heads up the stairs. “And where would we be going?”

 

“I think...think it’s...like...down. How we’re up? It’s...on my map. It’s down.”

 

Charon rolls his eyes; of course, that made perfect sense. “I will go where you do,” he says, leaning to lay Max down, and then he can’t hold back a quiet gasp when Max refuses to let go of him, arms tightly clasped behind his neck, and nearly drags him down, too.

 

“We should cuddle,” Max says, and Charon freezes.

 

“...What?”

 

“Cuddle. I want to cuddle. I’m sleepy. Are you cold? I’ll make you all warm an’ better.”

 

“I think you need to rest,” Charon says, carefully reaching back to try and pry Max’s arms from around his neck. "I would appreciate it if you allowed me to stand."

 

“Hmm. Okay.” Max yawns and releases Charon, stretching, and his shirt raises up high enough that Charon can only stare. His fingertips itch, and God, he wants to touch. He still isn’t even sure what the nature of his intentions would be. Earlier he’d thought of slipping his hands under Max’s shirt to _take,_ but there’s something else he wants, too, even more. He doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but he thinks it's...curious, instead of sexual—as innocent as his thoughts ever get. He wants to touch for the sole purpose of the touch itself, to feel Max’s softness, to feel what he misses having, to feel the warmth he’s been given a taste of and is sure he’ll never be satisfied without now.

 

“You sure?” Max asks, and Charon scoffs.

 

“Yes.”

 

“‘Kay. Maybe later. G’night."

 

Charon grunts in response, laying the blanket over him and turning to leave.

 

“Charon?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You...you do what you want. But...but go. Gob. You know? You should.”

 

Charon takes a breath as he thinks. He doesn't want to hear what Gob has to say, and yet...that's exactly what he wants. To, for sure, know how Gob feels, to give Gob closure, to give him a chance to yell at Charon if he so pleases...it's the right choice.  

 

Finally, he nods, and Max smiles wearily up at him.

 

"Good. Okay. Okay. I'm gonna sleep now. Bye. G'night."

 

"Goodnight," Charon says, very quietly, and then shuts the door.

 

**x**

 

_"Well hey there, kiddies. It's me, Three-Dog. How're ya'll doin' this fine, hot, gross, deadly day in paradise? What? This isn't paradise? Sure had me fooled. Just like I've been gettin' reports of slavers foolin' the younger wastelanders out there. Listen, if someone's offerin' you somethin' that sounds too good to be true, it fuckin' is! Don't trust anyone you don't know tellin' you that they've got some safehouse, some supplies they're willin' to share. They don't. The only thing that's gonna come out of that is money in their pocket. Already heard of two kids gettin' sold off to Paradise Falls after bein' lured there with promises of food. Listen, I know ya'll can get real hungry out there, but if someone plain out offers to give it to ya, and for free? It's better to find it elsewhere. Stay safe out there. Until next time, this has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. Now, some music..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enough filler. Back into the good action-y shit next chapter! So much planned...


	17. In The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your continued support! Your comments and kudos are really what get me through my days! :3

A few hours before sunrise, Charon takes a breath and slowly gets up, locking the door of the house behind him and walking over to the saloon in the silence. His heart pounds, and he is, shamefully, something very close to fearful as he approaches the door. Max hadn't given him an outright order, and therefore he knows he really doesn't have to do this at all, but something still pulls him forward despite the anxiety.

 

He pauses outside, gathering up the courage to go in, and then hears a very quiet voice from his left.

 

“Charon.”

 

Charon takes a step back and finds Gob sheepishly smiling at him from the side of the bar, mostly cloaked in shadow. Gob looks...relieved, almost pleased to see him. He moves towards Charon, arms out, and Charon flinches, turning his head slightly, gaze going to the ground.

 

Gob stops, eyes wide. “Oh...sorry, I...I thought…”

 

Giving no response, Charon does not relax, doesn't raise his eyes, and Gob wraps his arms around himself. It registers then that Gob was going to _hug_ him, and that only makes him more confused. Why would Gob ever want to do that?

 

“I just didn't think you were coming.” Gob looks around, nervously, and then gestures behind him. “We should talk over here. I...I don't want anyone to see us.”

 

Charon nods, following Gob to the darkened corner, and then he simply stands there, waiting. He doesn’t expect this to take very long.

 

Gob sits down, motioning for Charon to do the same, and after a moment of hesitation Charon does. He can only just see Gob’s face in the moonlight, and he hardly manages to make eye-contact before having to look down again.

 

“I’m glad you came,” Gob says softly. “It’s good to see you.”

 

Charon’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head, trying to ignore his urge to flee and instead prodding for an explanation. “Why?”

 

Gob seems to be surprised Charon spoke at all. “Um...why what?”

 

Shifting, taking out his cigarettes, Charon bites his lip. “I do not understand why you asked me to come here.”

 

“To talk. Why do you think?” His gaze flickers down to the cigarettes, and, very quietly, he adds, “Can I have one?”

 

Charon only has a few left, and still he hands one to Gob without needing to think about it. He lights his own, and vaguely startles when Gob’s fingers brush against his as his lighter exchanges hands.

 

“Sorry,” Gob murmurs, slipping the cigarette between his lips and then lighting it, and Charon doesn't respond, inhaling deeply. It reminds him of when Gob would touch his hand to put food into it, fingers lingering over his for a moment, and how much he had thought about that; too much. So pathetically needy for any contact that had no malicious intent behind it...surely Max is just someone who's giving him what he's wanted. It doesn't have to be anything more, anything deeper.

 

“Thanks. Nova has hers, but I hate to ask.” He reaches up to scratch at his head, and Charon gives another cringe at the quick movement.

 

“Jesus, Charon,” Gob suddenly says, staring at him, appalled as he understands. “You think I'm going to hurt you? Is that it?”

 

Charon flicks ash from his cigarette and stares down at it. “Is that not what you wish?”

 

“What? No!”

 

“Why? I hurt you.”

 

Gob frowns, like maybe he doesn’t remember. Charon wonders if he beat Gob so hard Gob _can’t_ remember.

 

“No, you didn’t.”  

 

Charon is absolutely horrified for a moment, believing everything he did to have been far worse than he initially thought, before Gob adds, “Ahzrukhal did.”

 

That really surprises Charon, and he almost can't find his voice. “What?”

 

“It wasn’t you. It was him.”

 

The only thing Charon can do is choke out what is almost a laugh. “No...no. It was not. That is...no.”

 

“You think I asked you here because I want to hurt you? God, Charon, I don't. I don't. I just wanted to talk. We never could before.”

 

“I do not understand. I do not understand. You...why? You wish to speak as if—as if we are friends?”

 

Gob looks heartbroken. “We...we are friends, aren’t we?”

 

Head reeling, Charon tries to focus. No. They can’t be friends. They were never friends. “I hurt you. I am allowing you to hurt me back.”

 

“I never blamed you,” Gob says, and Charon shakes his head.

 

“No. No. I—”

 

Gob reaches out and takes Charon’s hands, and Charon sucks in a breath of surprise, cigarette tumbling from his mouth out onto the ground. It's the last thing he ever would have expected Gob to do, and he can hardly even react.

 

“I—”

 

“I forgive you,” Gob says. “Do you hear me? I forgive you. I never thought it was your fault.”

 

“But it was. You should not do something as foolish as forgiving me. I have done nothing to deserve it.”

 

“You didn't do anything wrong!”

 

“I nearly killed you!” Charon finally pulls back and turns the other way, closing his eyes. “I nearly killed you.”

 

“Ahzrukhal almost killed me. Not you. You kept saying you were sorry. I remember.” Gob’s voice falters with emotion at the memory, and Charon tries to recall the same. He had never talked to Gob...had he? Certainly not after what he'd done...

 

“I—I told you to stop, and...and you said you wanted to. That was the first time you ever said anything to me. You said you wanted to, you just couldn’t. And then I knew it was Ahzrukhal. It was never your choice. Would you have done it if he didn't tell you to?”

 

Charon again shakes his head. No. No, God, never. Gob had meant everything to him…

 

“See? It was awful, but I know it's not your fault. It never was.”

 

“Then why did you leave?” Charon asks, and he doesn't mean to sound so desperate.

 

Gob chuckles softly, offering Charon his own cigarette, then stubbing it out when he refuses to save it for later. “Did you miss me?” He sighs, shifting to make himself more comfortable, and Charon just doesn’t know. He’s never missed someone before; he’s not sure he even knows what that feels like. He knows there’s always been a terrible ache in his chest each time he’s thought of Gob, a pain separate from the guilt, and he had no doubt wished Gob would come back… _had_ he missed Gob?

 

“I...I had to,” Gob continues. “I was scared.”

 

“Of me.”

 

“No. Of what Ahzrukhal would tell you to do to me next. I knew he hated me. I wasn't stupid. If I hadn't made him mad...I probably could've saved up enough to get you away from him.”

 

Charon stares at him, dumbfounded. “You...would have?”

 

Gob rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I—I thought about it. It...I didn't want to... _have_ your contract, you know, but I didn't want to leave you there. Not with how he treated you. How they all just ignored it...just let him be such a bastard to you…”

 

“They would have ended as you did if they had,” Charon says, and Gob sighs.

 

“Just glad to hear he’s gone...and that you're not. You know, I probably woulda been fine out here with you watching my back. I...thought about that a lot. It was my fault. I got picked up by this group of slavers in three days flat. Idiot.”

 

Charon turns to face forward again, looking at Gob out of the corners of his eyes. “That is how you ended up here?”

 

“Yeah. It was...a really long week. I...I thought they were gonna kill me. I really did. It...it would've actually been a relief. They...well, eventually we came here, before it was really the mayor’s town, and Colin bought me off of them. I...I don't know why. He hates me. He fucking hates me. I thought it couldn't be worse than where I was. I really did. I was so hungry and tired and _hurt_. And he gave me food and water and told me I could stay upstairs in my own room if I just worked at the bar for him. I thought that was fine. I did. And it kind of was, for a day or two.”

 

Charon watches as Gob draws his knees up and wraps his arms around them, lowering his head as he continues.

 

“And then he got mad at me. I don't remember what I did. Maybe I didn't do anything. And he broke my finger. But the slavers had done worse, a lot worse, so I thought...maybe I'll just be really good, and he won't get mad again. But he did, and then he started...started hitting me when stuff went wrong, and it just kept getting worse. It still...just...keeps getting worse. Charon, if I'd known I would end up here, I would have wanted Ahzrukhal to kill me. This isn't what I wanted—living as a slave in a town where no one cares. Guess I finally know how you felt. And I'm really sorry, Charon, because it feels worse than I ever thought it could.”

 

They are both silent for a minute, in which Gob sniffles and starts giving small, choked sounds that Charon knows is him trying to hold back tears. And then Charon reaches out, touching Gob’s hand, and Gob completely breaks down, crumpling halfway over and clamping his other hand over his mouth to stifle his sobs.

 

Charon stares at him, and he doesn't know what to do. This...this is not at all how he expected this to go. His chest hurts, and he doesn't like how he's feeling—doesn't like that he's feeling at all. Gob just looks so small and broken, and Charon doesn't know how to put him back together.

 

“It feels like I'm burning inside,” Gob chokes. “Like I’m on fire all the time. In my head, and...and just...inside. It hurts. I-I can't...breathe. I don't want to anymore. I'm burning and I’m drowning and I wish it would kill me but it just _won’t._ ”

 

“Gob,” Charon murmurs, slowly reaching to rest his other hand on Gob’s head, and Gob leans into the touch, tears still pouring down his face. Then he crawls closer and presses against Charon’s side; Charon jumps and almost pushes away, but he forces himself to remain still. It's his fault Gob is hurting in the first place; the least he can do is try to comfort him anyway he can.

 

He never meant for this to happen. He wishes he was stronger, wishes he had been able to bear the headache longer, wishes he had been able to tell Ahzrukhal _no._

 

“He's gonna kill me one day,” Gob says. “He won't care. He won't. I woke up once and Nova had a black eye because she tried to pull him away after I passed out. He almost didn't stop. I wish he hadn't stopped.”

 

“ _Gob,_ " Charon says again, and Gob shakes his head.

 

“I-I'm sorry. I know it’s been worse for you.”

 

Charon shifts uncomfortably. “My contract...prohibits physical violence.”

 

“Yeah, except when that drunk smoothskin punched Ahzrukhal b-because you were looking at _me_ instead of  _him_ , and he broke your finger. And you _let_ him, because that's what you have to do when you fail, isn't it?" He watches Charon tense, and adds, "Willow told me. I asked her everything she could tell me about you. And she told me a  _lot_."

 

Charon's breath catches. He doesn't remember everything he told Willow now, and he suddenly has to wonder how much Gob knows. Surely nothing of any other employers, right? He wouldn't do that. He'd trusted Willow, but he would never have opened up like that to  _anyone._  He hopes, anyway.

 

"That was punishment," he says. "It is...different." _And it was two fingers_.

 

"It's not different! He hurt you! He kept hurting you! What about all the push-ups? I know that didn't stop when I left. What about every time you got hurt, when he just made you suck it up because he didn't want to waste the caps? I'm not stupid, Charon. He treated you like shit. He starved you and yelled at you and made you stand in that goddamn corner all the time like—like you didn't even matter, and—"

 

“I do not matter,” Charon says, and Gob grabs for Charon’s hands again, holding them tightly. They are terribly close, and Charon truly doesn't know how he’s kept still this long.

 

“You’re crazy,” Gob whispers. “You matter. I don't care what he said. I don't care what anyone said. You matter. You matter so fucking much, Charon.” And then he _kisses_ the back of Charon’s hand, softly, and Charon’s heart leaps into his throat. He tugs free, because that just can’t be okay, and stares at Gob, his breaths shallow.

 

“S-sorry, I'm sorry, that was—that was really weird,” Gob says, chuckling nervously. “I'm sorry. I just…”

 

Charon is so completely confused; Gob is acting as if these hands aren't the sole reason he's here in this situation. “You do not hate me?” he asks after a long moment, voice so quiet and small it almost makes him angry, and Gob gives him the same smile he had waited to see every day fifteen years ago.

 

“No. No, I don’t. I never did.”

 

“You were afraid of me when I came into the saloon."

 

Gob chews on his lip. “If you...want the truth, I...I thought for a second that he sent you. I-I don’t know why. That was...stupid. But I also never thought I’d see you again. When Max told me you were with him, now, I was really happy. I...I haven’t been happy in a long time, Charon.”

 

Charon casts his gaze to the ground and nods in agreement, and then hesitantly puts his hand beside Gob’s again. Gob takes it and holds it to his chest so quickly that Charon has to wonder if he’d just been waiting for Charon to allow it.

 

“I missed you,” he murmurs. “Is that stupid? I really, really missed you. I...I thought...I just...I missed you.”

 

Charon closes his eyes against the sudden, vague sting of tears. Gob never hated him. His only friend. His friend. _Friend._ His friend didn't hate him. His friend had missed him.

 

He still isn't certain, but based on how he feels here, how content he is, and how he still doesn't have an unbearable urge to pull away when Gob rests against his side again, he thinks he missed Gob, too.

 

**x**

 

Just as the sky is starting to grow lighter, Nova rounds the corner to check on them. Gob is sound asleep, very nearly cradled in Charon’s arms, and Charon looks up to find her smiling.

 

“Thanks for coming,” she says, and Charon slowly nods.

 

“He mentioned you a lot, whenever his past came up.” She lights a cigarette, leaning against the wall. “He even said you were tall. I thought that was kind of weird of him to remember, but it’s just about the only thing I noticed when you came in. I can’t imagine how he ever talked to you in the first place; I’d’ve thought he’d be scared of you.”

 

Charon scoffs, glancing down at Gob. Much like Max, Gob had been far more annoyingly curious than scared. Charon had shoved past him to get outside, _once,_ and somehow that had convinced Gob that he needed to bother absolutely everyone in his attempt to find out who exactly Charon was. When apparently Willow had given satisfactory answers to all of his questions (Charon probably knew it was her; who else would agree to talk about him?), he'd left Charon a goddamn cookie as some sort of peace offering, or maybe a sympathetic gift. Charon was amused enough that he hadn't pushed Gob out of the way next time.

 

“He needs someone,” Nova says, and Charon raises his head again.

 

“A friend, I mean. I’m here, but...I have to work, too. And he doesn’t like to see me like that. There’s Max, but…” She gestures at them. “I don’t see him doing this. Gob’s always trying to get me to touch him—hold his hand, that kind of thing. He likes me. I hate to lead him to think something’s going to happen when I just don’t think it can, but he needs it. He really does. All Colin does is take his anger out on him. If I get bruised, less people will want to pay for me. No one here cares about him.”

 

She shakes her head, exhaling smoke. Gob shifts a little and tenses, muttering under his breath, and Charon gently settles his hand onto Gob’s head in hopes that he relaxes again.

 

Humming softly, almost appreciatively at the sight, Nova continues, “I don't know how he was before, but he’s...different, even just from when he first got here. He told me a week ago he didn’t care if Colin hurt him anymore. I can’t stand to see him so sad all the time. But when he told me that it was you with Max...when he asked me to tell you to come back...he didn’t look sad. He looked...excited. What I’m trying to say is...you and Max are the only good things he has, okay? Tell Max. I know you’re not going to stay here all the time, but...don’t leave for too long, alright?”

 

Charon takes a minute to let the words sink in. How strange it is to hear that Gob feels just the same as he always has, now. It’s...sad. He is _sad._ He feels guilt suffocating him all over again, and he takes a shaky breath, absentmindedly running his hand over Gob’s head.

 

“What?” Gob mumbles, tilting his head to look up at him, and Charon points at Nova. Gob gasps and stumbles to his feet, and the loss leaves Charon cold both inside and out.

 

“Is he—?” Gob asks, panic lacing his voice, and Nova cups his cheeks. The way Gob melts into her touch only further confirms Nova’s words, and Charon wishes he’d come earlier in the night, wishes Gob had had more time to be comfortable for once and rest.

 

“Ssh, darling. No. Still asleep. You're okay.”

 

Gob releases his breath and nods, and then looks back at Charon. “I...I have to go. Will you come back later? Tomorrow?”

 

“My employer wishes to go out today,” Charon replies. “I am uncertain when I shall return.”

 

“Oh.” Gob swallows hard and forces a smile, quickly returning to Charon's side and taking his hand. “Okay. Um...be careful, please. I...just...don't not come back, okay? I want...uh...it’d be nice to...if you…”

 

“Don't die,” Nova says, and Gob gives a nervous chuckle.

 

Charon nods, and gently squeezes Gob’s hand. Gob smiles almost shyly and looks away, and then wraps his arms around Charon and hugs him.

 

It still makes Charon flinch, but it's more out of surprise than anything else, and he finds that he still doesn't want to pull away. He lays his hand on Gob’s shoulder and holds him there, a bit awkwardly, his heart suddenly pounding. He half hopes Max decides they don't need to risk their lives for people who want Charon dead, and he can…

 

And he can do what, exactly? No. He can't be doing this, he can't be _feeling_ this; not with Max, and not with Gob.

 

He releases Gob, takes a breath, and leaves them without looking back. When he returns to the house, he finds Max now slumped on the couch, an empty syringe of Med-X on the floor beside him. With a sigh, Charon picks it up and throws it out, and Max reaches out when Charon passes by. Clearly he's been down here awhile, because with how tiny Max is, that amount of Med-X would have left him out cold for hours. Stupid boy. That's all Charon needs—to come back to yet another overdosed employer.

 

“Charon, I…where’d you go? I thought you left.”

 

“To speak with Gob,” Charon says, sitting on the floor beside him and handing him a bottle of water. “You gave me permission.”

 

“Oh...oh, right…sorry, I…” He pauses, taking a long drink, and then puts his hand on Charon’s head, stroking his hair. Charon’s breath catches in his throat, too audibly, and he closes his eyes. This might feel even better than having his hand held...he just doesn’t deserve as much comfort as he has been receiving lately.

 

“I just...had a really bad headache. So I took some stuff. I can't really think straight, now, but...but I feel better. How are you?”

 

Charon sighs contentedly. “I am fine. Do you still wish to leave today?”

 

“What? Oh, yeah...but...later. Not now. I'm still sleepy. Can you...you’re nice, so...can you carry me upstairs? It's cold down here.”

 

Charon grunts out an agreement despite how much he doesn’t want to move, bringing Max to his bed and laying him down, covering him with his blankets.

 

“I have bad thoughts sometimes,” Max mumbles, and Charon frowns.

 

“I am sorry?”

 

“Bad thoughts. Gross thoughts. I'm bad...a bad person. You don't like me, and that's why we can't cuddle.”

 

Charon huffs and rolls his eyes. “That is not why.”

 

“Yeah-huh. I'm...I did a lot of bad. And I have a lot of bad in me. I like you, and I really liked him, but they told me I'm not allowed to be like this. I tried. But I'm not really good at trying."

 

“Who are they?"

 

“Who's what?” Max looks up at him, and then smiles. “Your face isn't as ugly as it could be, you know. I like it, I think. But I shouldn’t. Can I hold your hand again?”

 

“You may do as you wish,” Charon says, sitting down at the end of the bed. Max crawls over to him and tries to curl into his lap, and Charon stiffens. He had trusted Gob to do this, but an employer? It’s...different, far more dangerous. His heart races, and he knows he wants to be close, but...not like this.

 

“I am...I am uncomfortable,” he tries, and Max looks up at him and pulls away.

 

“What’d I do?”

 

The relief of Max still listening to him, to what he does not want, even in this state...it’s nearly overwhelming. Charon looks him over, thoughtfully, and very nearly decides to give in, but he _can’t._ He can’t do this. It will go wrong. It just will. He can’t risk that. He’s had enough contact this morning, anyway, hasn't he? So why is he only even _more_ desperate for it?

 

“Nothing,” Charon says, shaking his head and standing up. “We just...cannot...do this.”

 

“I know,” Max murmurs sadly, moving himself back so his head is resting on the pillow. “I know. ‘s bad. I’m bad. Sorry. G’night.”

 

Charon hesitates, uncertain, and then places his hand against Max’s hair. It’s somehow even softer than his skin, and Charon actually feels himself tremble. Max lets out a quiet happy noise and giggles, and Charon kneels beside the bed, taking Max’s other hand as he strokes the boy’s hair.

 

“You are not bad," Charon says. "You are...kind. Very kind."

 

“Yeah? I’m...only sometimes. But...but you deserve even kinder-er. I like you. You’re good, too. Sleepy…”

 

Charon doesn’t respond, continuing to pet Max’s hair even after he’s asleep, and then he ends up accidentally lulling himself into drifting off right there, head resting against the mattress beside Max's.

 

When he wakes up, Max is stroking his hair again, and he grunts his approval. This...this he can handle. This, he thinks, might be okay, as long as it is _just_ this.

 

But when he raises his head, eyes only half-lidded, and is close enough to Max to make a horrible mistake, close enough he nearly _does,_ he suddenly doesn’t know if it can be _just this_. Max bites his lip when he notices his mouth is where Charon's gaze is locked and gives a shy smile, blushing, and Charon has to pull himself away, adjusting his armor and quickly leaving the room, throwing over his shoulder a quick, “I will wait downstairs, if you still wish to leave.”

 

Max wants nothing more than to stay here and sleep, to somehow convince Charon to let them fucking _cuddle,_ but it isn’t healthy for him to have this much time to himself. The longer he goes without the medication he'd been on for several years in the vault the worse he feels, and he might end up doing something stupid if he doesn’t get out and go somewhere, do _something_. Moira had of course offered her own quests for him to go on, but...after hearing the repeating Outcast message on his Pip-Boy for over a day, he knows he’ll feel guilty if he doesn’t at least check it out. It's possible they aren't all jerks, right? It had sounded like they really need help…

 

“Is this a stupid idea?” he asks Charon as he’s tying his hair back with his bandana, both of them waiting for the gate outside to open. “Like...really stupid?”

 

Charon gives him a look. “I cannot lie to you, but you hardly like to hear the truth.”

 

“So, it’s stupid.”

 

“Oh, _very._ ”

 

“Great. Well, can’t be any worse than all the time we spent looking for my douche of a dad, so...let's go.”

 

**x**

 

It’s two days later, when they’re right outside the exit to the Outpost, that Charon speaks up and tells Max about Gob, about how they need to stay alive for him, and, once again, how fucking _dangerous_ this is. Going up to a group of armed people who want Charon dead, _with Charon?_ He’s been mostly quiet this trip, doing not much else besides picking off a few more of Talon-Company and hiding any alcohol he sees before Max can find it, but he’s about to be dragged straight into avoidable danger by the one person who had promised to never do such a thing.

 

“He really said that?” Max asks, glancing back at him, and Charon shrugs.

 

“Nova did. But I believe she is correct.”

 

“Well, we probably won’t be gone that long. I like him, too, so we’ll go back. I think—”

 

“And what will happen to him while we are gone?” Charon asks. “It would be nothing, if you would simply allow me to help him.”

 

“I didn’t ask,” Max snaps, scowling. “I really didn’t. I know he needs help. Just give me some time, okay?”

 

Charon doesn’t acknowledge him, and Max sighs, gesturing for Charon to open the chain fence as they approach it.

 

“Sorry. I’m just...tired. And hot.”

 

Charon hefts the gate open, and then unzips Max’s bag and pulls out his water bottle. “Drink. You look ill.”

 

“There's...barely any left…are you sure?”

 

Charon waves dismissively, and Max downs the rest of the water, wiping sweat out of his eyes and sighing heavily. “Okay. Ready?”

 

“I am always ready to die for my employer,” Charon says, and Max groans.

 

“They can’t all be assholes! They’ll probably be nice to you after this!"

 

“Oh, what a pleasure.”

 

Max barks out a laugh and takes Charon’s hand. “Just...stay behind me, and I’ll make sure they know you’re with me. Okay?”

 

“As you wish,” Charon says, and Max takes a deep breath, leading them out.

 

It turns out (luckily?) that there’s a far more pressing matter for the Outcasts to deal with, and they don’t end up noticing Charon at all until he takes one of half dozen super mutants attacking them out with one headshot, raining blood over them as they stare up at the ghoul who just saved their asses.

 

He kicks one of their dropped weapons back over to them and then returns to Max’s side, ushering him down a flight of stairs in the crumbling building and behind a wall, keeping him safe and hidden while Charon leans out and kills any mutant that comes too close. Max, at one point, tries to nudge Charon aside and get a shot in, tries to be _impressive,_  but Charon immediately shuts him down, hissing for him to get back and blocking him from trying again.

 

When it finally goes quiet, Charon feels Max grab at his hand and try to tug him closer, shaking.

 

“Is it...okay? Are you okay?”

 

Charon listens for a moment, just to be sure, and then finally nods.

 

“I could’ve helped, you...you didn’t have to…”

 

“We will practice more,” Charon says, helping him over the concrete rubble, “but until then, please, allow me to do my job. Yes?”

 

“Yeah,” Max mutters. “Sorry. I just hate bein’ so fuckin’ useless.”

 

“You just risked your life to come help these people,” Charon says, releasing him as they exit the building and gesturing down the ramp to where an Outcast stands, looking up at them but, surprisingly, leaving their gun pointed down. “That is not being useless. You are very helpful."

 

Max gives him a fond smile and nods, quickly making his way down the ramp with a new sense of confidence that Charon knows he probably shouldn't have given.

 

“Thanks for the help, local,” the Outcast says, and while he still doesn’t raise his gun, he shifts it in Charon’s direction. “But mind telling me what you’re doing here? And why you brought...this?”

 

" _This_ just saved your asses,” Max replies, “and his name is Charon. He’s my friend. I came to help.”

 

“To...help?”

 

“Yeah. That broadcast. It said you needed back-up. Were the mutants really it?”

 

“How the hell did you even hear that? It wasn’t even on a standard broadcast signal! Hey, wait...you’ve got one of those wrist-mounted computers. Well, well. Isn’t that interesting?”

 

Max glances down at his Pip-Boy and then lifts it up. “Yeah. It’s my Pip-Boy 3000. You wanna see it?”

 

“Fancy. Look, kid, maybe you could help us out. I’m Defender Morrill. We’ve been looking for someone like you.”

 

“O-oh?” Max almost sounds flattered, and Charon rolls his eyes.

 

“Why don’t you head inside and talk to Protector McGraw, huh? I’ll radio ahead and let him know you’re coming. But, uh...mind if it’s just you?”

 

“I do mind,” Max says. “He comes with me or I don’t go.”

 

Morrill makes a sound of disapproval and then sighs, gesturing for Charon to go, and Charon glares at him as they pass.

 

“Watch it, shuffler,” he says, and then turns, speaking into his radio. “McGraw? I think I found someone that can help with our little problem, but...he’s got someone with him.”

 

Charon tunes out whatever insult he’s sure is used next and simply follows Max to the lift, pressing the button when Max can’t seem to figure out how to use it.

 

“He was kind of nice!” Max says, like he might be trying to convince Charon to change his opinion on them. “Right?”

 

“I believe you wish me to agree with you, so, yes.”

 

“You could’ve just said yes.”

 

“I could have said no.”

 

Max squints at him, thinks for a moment, and then nods. “Fair enough.”

 

Immediately after the lift doors open and Max takes a step out, he’s greeted by a man that looms over him and snaps, “Alright, you. Keep your weapons holstered, your hands to yourself, your fucking pet zombie on a _very short_ leash, and your mouth shut. Got it? Good. Follow me.”

 

Max is left speechless, his mouth hanging open, and Charon whispers, “He was kind of nice.”

 

Unsuccessfully trying to hold back laughter, Max arches one eyebrow up at him. “Did you just make a joke?”

 

“There is nothing funny about being here.”

 

Before Max can respond, the same man shouts at him from down the hall to pick up the pace, and Charon is fairly sure even _he_ has never followed an order as quickly as Max follows this one, hurrying down to catch up with the man. It’s pathetic. He can’t understand why Max would allow himself to be treated like this when he has a choice. They could leave. They _should_ leave.

 

He keeps his hands very still and open at his sides to show that he is not holding any weapons, and ignores the muttered insults by the Outcasts he passes until he turns into a room to return to Max’s side again.  

 

“I’ll be perfectly honest,” the man before them, presumably McGraw, is saying, “I’d trust a Wastelander to shine my power armor, and even that’s pushing it.”

 

“That’s—” Max tries to interrupt, but the man holds his hand up.

 

“But you do have that computer there on your wrist. And that makes me think Morrill was right about you. Maybe you can be useful after all.”

 

“Yeah, you’ve really made us feel welcome."

 

“Apologies for my men, if they’ve given you and your…” His cold gaze travels to Charon, sweeping over him. “... _companion_ here a hard time. We’ve been having a lot of trouble. You see, we’ve been trying to get into the armory here…”

 

“Why don’t I brief him, Protector?” the man who had led them in there says, still lingering by the doorway. “You have a lot to do. I don’t mind.”

 

“Thank you,” McGraw says, gesturing Max towards him. “This is Defender Sibley. He’ll explain everything.

 

Charon eyes Sibley suspiciously, keeping very close to Max as Sibley leads them down the hall. 

 

“Like McGraw said, kid. There’s an armory here—high-value tech—but it’s sealed by a blast door we can’t get through. Everything points to this simulation, the, uh, the thing used here pre-war, being what opens it, but none of us have got the interface needed. You do. That little device on your wrist. It’s what we’ve been looking for.”

 

“A simulation?”

 

“Yeah. The liberation of Anchorage Alaska. Guess it was a real important event, not that it matters now. It’ll be typical combat, but...hey, you’ll get some gear out of it, yeah?”

 

“Is it dangerous?” Charon asks, and Sibley ignores him completely, only responding when Max, louder, asks the same question.

 

“Nah. You can shoot, can’t you?”

 

“Well, yeah, but—”

 

“Then you’ll be fine. You’re the best chance we got. So...what do you say? You in?”

 

Max thinks for a moment, looks at Charon, and then shrugs. “I guess so. How long will it take?”

 

“Great! Might have underestimated you. It’ll probably be a few hours, no more than a day. Come on, we’ll get you set up.”

 

In less than fifteen minutes, Max is sitting in a pod similar to the one he’d gone into at the vault, and Charon is no less concerned. He hovers outside the pod, frowning in at Max, and asks for what must be the tenth time, “Are you very certain about this?”

 

“It’s just a dumb simulation,” Max says, shrugging. “It could’ve been something worse. ‘Least I’m not really in danger, right?”

 

Charon can’t kick the feeling that something is wrong, but he nods anyways, taking Max’s hand when he is sure no one is looking. “I will wait at your side until you return. I will ensure nothing goes wrong.”

 

“I know,” Max says, a light blush coloring his cheeks, and then Charon pulls away as Sibley returns beside them.

 

“Alright, kid. Just about ready? We’ll put your stuff upstairs to keep it safe. Actually, ghoul, why don’t you take it, hm? Isn’t that your job?” Sibley says, shoving Max’s bag into Charon’s arms, and Max thinks Charon might actually be offended as he huffs and straightens up. 

 

“It’s okay,” Max says, smiling gently and stroking a finger against Charon's arm as subtly as he can. “I’m okay.”

 

Charon glares at the man and then grumbles under his breath as he goes off, and Sibley waits a moment before clicking something on the side of the pod and nodding in the direction of the woman sitting at the computers behind them. Olin, Max thinks he heard, although he hadn't talked to her much before Sibley had interrupted yet again.

 

“You don’t have to be such a—” Max cuts off when the sides of the pod start to fold up around him, and he panics slightly, putting his hands up. “Wait, wait for him to come back, I just—”

 

“You’ll be fine, trust me.”

 

“W-wait, what does—what does safeties disengaged mean? The screen in here says...it says safeties disengaged…”

 

“Didn’t McGraw tell you?” Sibley asks, voice low, and Max can barely hear it over the whirring of the pod. “If you die in there, you die out here.”

 

Max’s eyes go wide, and he starts scrabbling at the pod to stop it from closing. “No, wait, hold on—wait! No one told me that! Wait, stop! _Charon!"_

 

“Good luck, kiddo,” Sibley says, and it’s the last thing Max hears before there’s a brilliant flash of white, and then nothing else.

 

**x**

 

Charon hears Max cry out his name even halfway up the stairs, and he drops everything, back beside the now-closed pod an instant too late.

 

“What are you doing?” he demands, circling the pod in an attempt to find a release button and then glaring at Sibley, who pretends not to notice him. “Why did he shout? What have you done? Let him out. Did you hear me? Let him out!”

 

“You better calm down before I put you down,” Sibley says, finally looking at him.

 

“I said let him out!” Charon growls, advancing on the man. “Now!”

 

“Can’t do that. It’d kill him.”

 

Charon's blood runs cold. “What? You said it was harmless!”

 

Olin turns to Sibley, a slightly worried expression on her face. “You told them, didn’t you?”

 

“Relax, I told the kid.”

 

“What? What did you tell him?”

 

“If you don’t get the fuck out of my face, zombie—”

 

Charon grabs the man and shoves him against the wall, baring his teeth. “What did you fucking tell him?”

 

“The safeties are disengaged.” Olin is the one to answer, and Charon turns to look at her.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means if he dies in the simulation...his body will go into cardiac arrest.”

 

“No,” Charon mumbles, shaking his head. “No. Find a way to get him out. Get him out! You lied! You—”

 

Sibley turns slightly and shoves his armored elbow straight into Charon’s stomach, and Charon doubles over, gasping for air that won’t come.

 

“Told you to get out of my face,” Sibley says, shoving Charon to the ground. Charon’s shotgun unhooks and clatters against the tile beside him, and when he reaches for it, Sibley jerks his weapon out and shouts, “Someone get in here!”

 

Charon coughs and grabs hold of his gun only to have it kicked out of his grip, Sibley's heavy boot stepping on his hand when he tries to move.

 

“What are you doing, Sibley?” someone asks from the hall, approaching them with two others. “Why’re you yelling?”

 

Sibley puts more weight on Charon’s hand when Charon starts writhing to free himself, and gestures down at him as he clumsily reaches for his knife. “Ghoul’s goin’ feral or somethin’. It freaked out. I don’t think we’re safe.”

 

“I don’t know why McGraw let it in in the first place. Just put a bullet in it’s head and be done with it.”

 

“Get off of me!” Charon demands, stabbing his knife into a small crevice in the armor, and Sibley kicks him with his other foot.

 

“Then knock it the fuck off! The kid’s gonna be fine. Maybe.”

 

Charon spits blood onto Sibley's boot and snarls, “He will die! You have killed him!”

 

“Does that make you upset?” Sibley asks, getting to one knee and ripping the knife from Charon's hand, grabbing his fingers and twisting them painfully. “I know the world’s better off without any ghoulfuckers. I saw the way you were holding his hand. Disgusting."

 

“No, you are wrong! He is just a child! You have sent a child to die!”

 

“The thing is, I really hope he _doesn’t_ die. We want that tech, and he’s the only one who can get it. But you? Can't say there's any reason to keep you around if you're gonna act like this.” He cocks his gun, and Charon slams his head against the man’s face as hard as he can.

 

Sibley yelps and stumbles back, and Charon lunges for his gun, getting to his knees and firing once into the group of three as they swing their own weapons around to face him. 

 

There’s a second gunshot from behind him, and he jerks; a red mist sprays out in front of him onto the floor, and he stares down at it, confused.

 

“Olin, get a stimpak! Harvey’s down!” one of the Outcasts calls, and the woman, who Charon had completely forgotten about, bursts into tears and drops her pistol.

 

“I should’ve—I’m sorry, I was scared, I—”

 

“Stimpak! Now!”

 

She fumbles around in her drawers and hurriedly brings them a first-aid kit, and Charon falls forward on his hands. Blood pools beneath him, pouring from his chest, and he chokes, mouth opening and closing but unable to produce any sound. He can’t breathe, and his entire body has gone numb. He can’t feel a thing except _cold,_ a horrible chill he’s never felt before that completely overcomes him, and then his arms can't support him anymore and he collapses, wheezing.

 

“Fucker broke my nose,” Sibley says, coming over to grab Charon by his hair. “C’mere.” He drags Charon out and to a room down the hall, grabbing two stimpaks from the first-aid kit on the wall and shoving them straight into Charon’s wound.

 

Charon gasps, and convulses, and cries out in the pain he’s only now starting to feel. 

 

“I could have just put you out of your fucking misery,” Sibley says, pinning Charon to the ground as if he really expects Charon to move. “But you broke my goddamn nose. You shot one of my brothers. I was just gonna kill you, but now I’m gonna let you rot in here. Rot _more_. And if the kid lives, and you’re still alive when he comes out..." He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you watch me put a bullet in his head.”

 

Choking, blood dribbling from the side of his mouth, Charon stares up at him with wide eyes, helpless. Sibley grins wickedly, stands, and then kicks him once more for good measure. Charon gags and then vomits bright red, clawing uselessly at the tile, and Sibley unhooks the kit from the wall and tosses it down to Charon's side.

 

“Take care of that bleeding,” he says. “It’d be a shame if you died so soon.”

 

Then he turns on his heel and slams the door shut, leaving Charon in the dark.

 

**x**

 

_"Hey there, boys and girls. Guess who? You're right, it's me, Three-Dog, the one and only, and your favorite. At least, I hope I'm your favorite. Got news that our Mr. 101 is out and about again, but, uh...hope I heard this part wrong...seems he was headin' out towards the Outcast Outpost. Kid, you, uh...you know your companion there...Brotherhood and anyone who was ever part of 'em ain't too fond of him. Just be damn careful, whatever you're doin', although he looks like he can handle himself. Just a little update for now, but I'm sure we'll be hearin' more soon. Until then, this has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	18. Stasis (1)

Shivering and curled against a mountain of ice that feels far more real than it should, Max shakes his head and mutters, “No.”

 

The man standing in front of him stares, looking absolutely dumbfounded. “What?” he finally says. “What do you mean, no?”

 

Max holds his knees closer and buries his face against them. Maybe if he pretends hard enough…? Blinks hard enough? Pinches himself? Something has to wake him up! He rakes his nails down his neck, drawing blood, and squeezes his eyes shut.

 

“Hey—knock that off!”

 

Max is terrified to hear that he’s still here, scratching again, and then helplessly shakes his head. “I can’t. This...this...no. This can’t be happening. Please, I wanna go home.”

 

“Jesus, kid, how hard did you hit your head?” the man asks, taking a step forward, and Max flinches away from him. He doesn't know who this man is, and he doesn't _care_. The only person he wants is Charon.

 

“Don’t touch me! Don’t!”

 

“Alright, relax! It’s me, it’s Benji. C’mon, kid, just relax. That was a hell of a fall. I didn’t even think you made it.”

 

A fall? Into fucking _insanity_ , maybe. He shakes his head again, rubbing a vaguely sore spot on the back of it. “What? I...I…”

 

Benji crouches beside him, frowning in concern, hands out to show he means no harm, though Max doesn’t entirely believe that. “You don’t remember?”

 

“Remember _what?_ I wasn’t here five minutes ago! Just—just—please, you gotta listen to me, I need to get out of here!”

 

“Yeah, gettin’ across that bridge over there would be a good start. Do you remember our rendezvous point?”

 

“No, you don't understand! I'm not supposed to be here!”

 

“None of us are, kid! We all want to go home. We just gotta—”

 

“No, _no,_ listen, you—stop the simulation, _please,_ I need you to stop it. I need to go back! There’s...there’s gotta be a failsafe, right? There was last time—I—there’s gotta be one. Tell me what it is!”

 

“Whoa,” Benji says, making a downwards gesture with his hands, “calm down. Seriously, you’re gonna hurt yourself even more. Focus. You can’t remember anything?”

 

Max grabs onto Benji’s wrists, desperately, and looks up at him with tears in his eyes. “Please. I can’t feel my face. I need to go home. Please. I can't die. I don't wanna. Not like this! Let me out!”

 

“There’s no out,” Benji says. “We just have to beat these Commie bastards, and we can all get home for Christmas. I thought you knew that.”

 

Max sags back, covering his face, and lets out a sob. This...can’t be happening...he has to be dreaming. He's still at home, in Megaton, and this is all just a drunken nightmare! “I...I don’t know, I...I can’t…”

 

“Listen, you can do it. I can’t hold your hand the whole time, alright? Go in quiet. Take ‘em out from behind. Meet up with me later. Alright? They don’t know we’re here. As long as you keep it that way, you’ll be just fine.”

 

Max is nearly hyperventilating, the cold air making his lungs ache and rendering him unable to speak, and Benji apparently takes this silence as an agreement.

 

“Good luck,” he says, and then he grabs onto the rocks behind Max and starts to climb. Max stares up at him, mouth hanging open, and then finally cries out, “No! Don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me alone!”

 

Either Benji doesn’t hear him or simply ignores him; he continues climbing, and Max starts to cry again, scratching more lines down his arms and neck, and then tightly hugging himself as he realizes it isn't going to work. This isn't a dream. He can't wake up! God, what has he gotten himself into? This is all his fault! He had had the chance to stay home, to stay safe! He had promised himself after his dad that he wouldn’t be going out again, and yet, here he fucking was! Completely doomed!

 

Wait...Charon had promised he would get Max out if anything went wrong, hadn’t he?Max won't have to be here long! Surely Charon had heard his cry...

 

His heart drops, and he whimpers softly. What if Charon _can’t_ get him out? What if the Outcasts hurt him? What if they had killed him the second Max was sealed inside? That means that he died there, terribly alone, and it’s Max fault. And as a consequence, Max is going to die here just the same.

 

The wind picks up, and he starts to shiver harder. Maybe he’ll just sit here, allow himself to freeze to death before anyone even gets a shot at him. It sure seems like a less painful way of going then whatever waits for him if he moves any closer to the base in the distance, at least.

 

But...there’s a chance that Charon is still alive, or even working to get him out, isn’t there? A slight chance, but then, there had only been a slight chance that they would find his father. He won’t have to go through with this all, he just...has to bide his time until Charon rescues him, has to keep it together a little longer.

 

He grabs the 10mm off the ground beside him and bites his lip, finally staggering to his feet and adjusting his helmet. Inside his pocket he finds a stealth boy, and he takes a deep breath, reluctantly starting forward.

 

Charon will get him out. He _has_ to.

 

Max just has to keep himself going until then.

 

By the time he meets back up with Benji, he’s been grazed by three bullets and stabbed in the leg, but he’s breathing, and the dozen Chinese soldiers he’d come across no longer are.

 

Benji claps him on the back and wipes blood off of Max’s cheek, nodding. “See, told you.”

 

“Yeah,” Max pants, “I did fuckin’ _great_.”

 

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

 

Max takes a deep breath and nods, and doesn’t think Benji quite understands just how painfully true that statement is. “B-because the stealth boy. I...I barely had to fight, just...just a little.”

 

“Those things are pretty handy, eh? Coulda used it up on the cliffs. I almost bought it. Didn’t know the Reds were so handy with a sniper. Your head feelin’ better? Remember anything yet?”

 

“No, but...this has been helping.” He gestures to the weapon he’d grabbed off a fallen soldier hanging at his back, and Benji whistles quietly.

 

“Gauss rifle. Nice. Careful, though, firerate is shit.”

 

“I...I know. The one who had it...he died, I saw, I…”

 

“There’s nothing _but_ death here,” Benji says. “Let's make sure it all ain't for shit, alright? Come on, we’re close. Can’t turn back now.”

 

 _If only._ “Are you sure?”

 

“Very funny, kid. Let’s move.”

 

Max sighs, nods, and quickly follows Benji. He is sure to stay a good distance behind, far too scared to lead as Benji suggests. Benji isn't even _real,_ and so Max doesn't see a damn thing wrong with the little reassurance that if anything goes wrong, he won't be the one to get hit first.

 

Like most of his plans, though, it doesn't end up going as he wants. In the middle of a seemingly empty room, a sword catches him in the side, two seconds before Benji shouts out, “Dragoons!” and begins firing into the dead space behind Max as he hunches over, clumsily covering the wound and whimpering.

 

“What the fuck?” he demands, whirling around, and Benji backs him into a corner, tossing him something similar to a stimpak.

 

“I got your back. Fix yourself. Hurry up!”

 

Max fumbles with the device and injects it into his side, and if he had thought _stimpaks_ hurt… “Ah! Shit! _Shit!_ What the fuck is a Dragoon?”

 

“They got suits that let ‘em blend in,” Benji mutters, shooting off to the left, and a man clad in orange and black suddenly appears and falls to the ground. “C'mon, get your gun out! You see the lights reflectin’ off of somethin’, you shoot it!”

 

Max only stares at him, eyes wide, and Benji looks like he wants to shoot _him._ “Get your fuckin’ gun!”

 

Fumbling, Max swings his assault rifle around and presses his back against the wall, shaking. “I-I don’t know what to do!”

 

Benji swears and takes out a second man. “You’re not even fucking holding it right!”

 

Tearfully, Max tries to remember how to do _anything,_ placing his hands in the positions Charon had taught him, and his chest aches as he lifts the gun, placing the back snug against his shoulder. He hasn’t needed to use it yet; he’d taken most of them out with his knife and a few long-distance shots with the Gauss rifle. It hadn't been easy, but _this—_ being expected to take out someone he can’t even see? What kind of bullshit simulation is—

 

There’s a flash of movement to his left, and he fires without thinking, hearing a loud shout and then watching as a man reappears and collapses right beside him, sword clattering to the ground.

 

“Thatta boy!” Benji praises, grinning at Max over his shoulder. “Come on, up those stairs. Little further.”

 

“That’s what you fuckin’ said ten minutes ago!”

 

“I don’t remember you whinin’ this much before...you’re gonna have to get your head checked back at camp.”

 

“Fuck you! I just don’t wanna die!”

 

“Oh, and I do?”

 

“You’re not even real!”

 

In response, Benji grabs Max’s collar and half-drags him up the stairs, pushing him forward. “Did that feel real enough? You’re gonna get us both killed if you don’t relax!”

 

Startled, Max watches him with wide eyes, taking a step back, and Benji sighs.

 

“Sorry, kid. Look, I don’t know how to prove to you this is happenin’, alright? But it is, and we have to work together to get out of here alive. I don’t want you to die anymore than you do. I’m doin’ what I can to keep you on your feet.”

 

“I can’t, I can’t, I _can’t,_ ” Max whispers. “My chest hurts. It hurts to breathe. Please, I just want Charon.”

 

Softening his tone, Benji asks, “Is that your gal back home?”

 

“He's my f-friend. He shoulda got me out already. He promised. And that means he just can't. They might've killed him. It'll be my fault. No, he can't be dead, he just can't be…”

 

“Listen, kid,” Benji says. “We all got someone we’re missing. And the faster we get this shit done, the faster we _win,_ the faster we can all get back to them. You get me?”

 

“I…”

 

“Hey. Take a breath. We’re gonna get out of here. Work with me, okay? Just keep your gun up and ready and you’ll be fine. We go out the next door and the guns are right there.”

 

Max nods, shakily, and Benji puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “Fight to see him again. Just keep focusin’ on that.”

 

The words ring in Max’s ears, and he bites his lip. He can’t die. He can’t. He needs to get back, whether it’s by Charon’s doing or his own. It can’t take too long, right? Just destroy the guns, and it’ll be over. He has to be close to the end, now, right?

 

“Okay. I’m okay,” Max says, inhaling deeply, and Benji nods.

 

“Alright. Glad to hear it. Let’s get this over with, huh?”

 

**x**

 

“I don’t understand,” Max says, staring up at the man who introduced himself as General Chase. “I’m...I’m supposed to be done. That...I thought that was it!”

 

Chase laughs, puffing his cigar. “Real amusing. You did great work, but you know damn well that was only the beginning of this shit. We got a shit-ton more to do over the next couple months, and—”

 

“Months?” Max echoes, feeling the blood drain from his face. He backs away and holds out his hands, starting to shake again. “No. _No,_ I—I almost died a hundred times in a couple fucking hours! I can’t—no, that’s—I—no, get me out!” His voice rises to a shout, and he grabs onto the edge of the table in the middle of the room, where, minutes before, the general had tried to show him a plan he absolutely cannot follow through with. “Let me out! Please! I can’t!”

 

“ _Soldier,_ you best pull yourself together. I don’t want to have to demote you right after giving you the damn team."

 

“I don’t want it! I just wanna go home!” His breaths come in wheezing gasps now, and he sinks to the floor, terrified. He can’t go out there again! He just can’t! He barely made it through today! “Please, please, please, just stop the simulation, _please!"_

 

A hand gently touches his shoulder, and he swats it away, twisting to find a woman smiling gently down at him.

 

“Sir, let’s get you back to medical and get that head wound checked out, alright?”

 

“Don’t touch me!" Max shouts, tucking his knees up and cradling his head in his arms. "Don’t! Just—"

 

He gasps and cuts off at the sudden sensation of a needle piercing into his neck, and he strikes out at her, pulling himself away. “What—what the fuck was—”

 

“Relax. We’ll get you feeling better, okay?”

 

“I...I’m…” Max says, panicking when he finds his tongue won’t properly work anymore, and then his anxiety starts to melt away, along with everything else. He tries to prop himself up and quickly finds his limbs won’t support him anymore, and he whines. “No, no! _Charon!_ I…”

 

“You’re going to be just fine.”

 

 _I’m not,_ Max tries to reply, but he can no longer make a sound. A hand strokes gently through his hair, and he finally goes still, panting.

 

“Just sleep,” she wills, and Max does.

 

**x**

 

“So,” Benji says, handing him a plate of food and then sitting down beside him. “Tell me about your friend.”

 

Weary, it takes a second for Max to glance up. He looks Benji over in the light of the fire before them, and then glances over at the other soldiers. “I don’t want to talk.”

 

“Oh, come on. They ain’t listenin’.”

 

Max dips his head again, and Benji gestures at the plate. “You gotta eat. C’mon. It was a long day.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“You’re always sittin’ by yourself over here. I thought you might want some company for once.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

Benji’s smile falters, and he faces forward. “Look. Richards was a hard loss for all of us, even the general. I know it was. But you can’t give up because of it.”

 

Max sets the plate of food by his feet and wrings his hands in his lap. They are cold, numb, but he would rather they be that than warm and covered in blood as they were earlier, as he tried to staunch the bleeding of a man he shouldn’t have cared about, from a strike team he never wanted.

 

They aren’t real. They _aren’t real_. But that’s not something he can remember thinking about in the moment, with a man choking on his own blood and helplessly looking up at Max with a face full of fear.

 

He’d seen the life leave those eyes, and it’s all he can picture every time he closes his own.

 

“I want this to end,” Max says, shaking his head.

 

“I know. We all do,” Benji says, and Max doesn’t bother arguing. Tears freeze on his cheeks, and he doesn’t care enough to wipe them away.

 

“Hey. Come on. You did your best, alright? No one blames you. Tell me about your friend. I want to hear why you’re gonna keep going.”

 

It’s pointless, but there’s nothing else he can do. He doesn’t want to go to sleep. He’s started to get nightmares over the last weeks, and he knows now they’ll only be worse.

 

“He’s, um…” Max murmurs finally wiping his sleeve across his face and sniffling. “He’s good. Nice.”

 

“Charon, right?”

 

“Charon.” The name only brings more tears to his eyes, and he closes them again. “I really miss him. I _really_ miss him. He's...he's all I have, and I...I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“He’s...he was...there were bad people around him when I left. And...and I don’t know what they did to him.”

 

“Prisoner of war?”

 

“Something like that,” Max says, tucking a knee up. “I just...I left him. I didn’t mean to leave him, but I did. And he’s really strong, and he can fight real well, but I...I—”

 

“Hey, you’re not doubtin’ him, are you? You just said he’s a good fighter, didn't you?"

 

"The best I've ever seen."

 

"Then how do you know he didn’t take them out like we’ve been doin’?”

 

“I...I don't."

 

"Then you gotta stop thinkin' like that. You'll see him again." A pause, and then Benji chuckles. "You really like him, don't you?"

 

Max closes his eyes against the threat of more tears. "Yes."He hadn't realized exactly how much until he spent these past few weeks alone, with Charon being the only thought that could force him to get up and fight. He's exhausted, and God, his anxiety has never been this bad, and he just wants Charon to be here, to have his back, to protect him, to...to just...so he doesn't have to feel so goddamn alone! 

 

He curls his hands into a ball at his stomach. “I just feel so sick right here," he says, sniffling. "Really, really sick, and—and cold. It just keeps getting worse. I’m scared. I’m so fuckin’ scared. I want to go home.”

 

“Listen, you’ve been doin’ good work,” Benji says, gently resting a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Your aim’s improvin’, your head's doin’ better, and you’re still here. Short a few, we’re all still here. And we’re gettin’ closer every day.”

 

“How long?” Max asks, voice cracking, and Benji squeezes his shoulder. As much as Max wants to pull away, he leans into the only comfort he’s received since he’s been here, and his relief is palpable when Benji doesn’t pull away.

 

“I wish I knew,” Benji says, quietly. “I really do."

 

**x**

 

Max doesn't know how much time has passed outside, but he believes that, here, it’s now been about four months. He's given up on ever being pulled out, and he knows for a fact that Charon is dead. It might be years later when he wakes up, if he ever does, and Gob will be gone, too. His father, dead. Everyone, dead. The only one he's living for now is himself, and it's only out of sheer spite and determination to get revenge on the bastard that put him in here.

 

And if Sibley’s dead, too, he'll take his anger out on every Outcast he can find until there aren't anymore.

 

He's achieved the rank of lieutenant within them, though he doesn't care for it. Benji is the only person he really speaks to, and he simply gives orders to the rest. He's so much shorter than the rest of them, so much smaller, but they follow him and everything he tells them to do like it doesn't matter, and respect him like he deserves it.  

 

He forgets he's in a virtual reality more often than not, now. There is nothing fake about watching his men die as he scrambles to save them. He's been shot twice, once that left him half-dead and unconscious for days, and the pain is _more_ than real. He wonders if he’ll have the scars when he wakes back up. If he does, that is.

 

He’s stopped crying himself to sleep at night, too, if that can be called progress. He’s out of tears, out of energy. Nobody is here to keep him warm, or to hold his hand, and he’s grown callous because of it. He can more than sufficiently use any weapon they give him now, and no longer hesitates out of fear. In fact, he isn’t sure he feels anything anymore other than satisfaction when another enemy goes down.  

 

As he stands in the empty outlook, yanking down the lever to turn off the pulse field, he watches in utter disinterest as the electricity crackles once more across the snow before receding in a wave, allowing the American soldiers through towards the final step. Enemy soldiers shout somewhere behind him before gunfire silences them, and he doesn’t hesitate in crossing the field with Benji and their team at his side.

 

“This is it,” Benji says, reloading his gun. “You ready?”

 

“Yeah,” Max replies, and he doesn’t even flinch at the explosion that takes out the refinery’s wall, giving them a way inside. “Fuckin’ hope Jingwei is.”

 

“Listen,” Benji says, grabbing Max’s arm to stop him. “Whatever happens, Lieutenant, it’s been a goddamn honor to fight by your side.”

 

“You too, Benji,” Max says, nodding. Benji pulls him into a quick hug, and Max closes his eyes, burying his face in Benji's shoulder.

 

“Alright. Enough with the sappy shit. Let’s end this.”

 

Inside, General Jingwei stands behind a kneeling captive, sword to his neck. Max points his gun as fighting erupts on all sides of him, though Jingwei remains perfectly calm, slashing the man’s throat and allowing the body to slump to the ground. Max feels nausea overtake him, but it’s brief, and quickly replaced with fury as the general shouts for them to surrender.

 

“Never,” Max spits, firing, and Jingwei laughs even as a bullet embeds in his shoulder.

 

“Then you will die the same as the rest,” Jingwei says, and Max jerks back from the blow the man tries to land on him, sword crackling with electricity as it misses him by mere inches. He catches glimpses of the fighting going on around him, yet none get in the way, and no stray bullets take him out. Off-balance and distracted, a kick to his legs sends Max to the snow, and as he scrabbles for his gun, the general shoves the sword right through his arm.

 

The pain is almost too much. His body convulses as electricity fires through it, and he lets out a scream so loud his voice gives out, leaving him to silently watch as blood begins to pour from the wound when Jingwei rips the blade back out.

 

“Pathetic,” Jingwei says, leaning over him as he gasps for breath. “Hardly a fight at all.”

 

After everything he’s been through? No. _No._ Not like this. He can’t die now. He _won’t._

 

Jingwei raises his sword for the final blow, and Max has barely a second to react. Despite the pain, he rolls onto his side just as the sword hits where his chest would have been. Letting out another cry, Max grabs the man’s leg with one hand, and touches the sword with the other, sending a sharp, painful bolt of electricity through them both.

 

Jingwei staggers back, stunned. Vision blurred, Max finally manages to get a hold of his gun, and with the last of his strength, he fires a line of bullets in Jingwei’s direction.

 

Everything freezes, and the world goes silent. The pain dulls and then disappears completely, and Max opens his eyes, raising his arm in front of his face to inspect it. The blood is gone and the wound has vanished like it was never there, and after a moment he gets to his knees, utterly confused.

 

“That’ll do, Lieutenant,” General Chase says, approaching him. “Stand down.”

 

“Wh...what?” Max says, blinking hard, and then he stands, looking to find Jingwei’s lifeless body a few feet behind him. “I...did it? He’s...dead?”

 

“As dead as we’ve wanted from the start. And now, our boys can secure this refinery and be on their way to Anchorage proper. You’ve helped pave the way to taking this city back from the Reds. Damn good work. That’ll complete this portion of your training. Report to your superior for debriefing and your next assignment. Dismissed!”

 

“I'm...done?" Max asks, and then looks up as the sky starts to dissolve away. He steps back, frightened, and then feels himself falling, falling, back into the same kind of nothingness that had brought him here, and that now, he thinks, he hopes, he _prays_  might just be sending him home.


	19. Stasis (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to the worst chapter by far. It also just so happens to be the longest...weird. It's almost like...I was waiting...anywho enjoy!
> 
> Warning for torture, violence, really minor gore towards the end, and a couple really weird and rapey comments that don’t actually lead to anything. Oh, and...did I mention torture? Because seriously, this is a warning, there. is. torture.

For a long while, Charon can only lay still in the dark room he was dragged into, trembling in pain and soaked in his own blood, fading in and out of consciousness. The only helpful thing in the first-aid kit Sibley had thrown to him was a roll of gauze, but he hasn’t been able to find the strength to do anything but hold it tight against his wound and wait for the bleeding to stop. Surely two doses will heal him; one or two more would have been better, quicker, but he can work with what he’s been given. He’s survived worse things, hasn’t he? His mind is clouded, but he knows he won't be letting himself die here. Not at the hands of these bastards. He has to get Max out of here. He _has_ to. It’s his only option.

 

And yet he can hardly bring himself to open his eyes, let alone think clearly enough to plan to rescue his employer; he’s even fairly certain for a time that he has to be dying, because there's no other explanation of him feeling this goddamn awful _,_ until finally, the next time he wakes, enough of his strength has returned that he can unbuckle his armor and pull the top and his shirt up, groaning softly as he looks down at the exit wound. The edges are hideously jagged, and it isn't yet closed, but the bleeding has at last stopped. It _hurts_ , and so does his back, and he's pretty sure Sibley’s kick to his face cracked one of his teeth, but...he's alive. And given the amount of blood he’s laying in, and the fact that the bullet must have missed his heart by mere centimeters, that's a miracle all its own.

 

He sleeps as much as he can, regains his energy, and then eventually manages to drag himself to his feet, staggering over to the door and searching for a light switch. He sighs in relief when he finds and flips it, because at least _something_ has gone right, and winces as his eyes adjust.

 

On the floor to his left is the body of a man in a vault suit. A pool of red is dried underneath the leftover stub of an arm; the same arm that would have had a Pip-Boy on it, Charon realizes, and his upper lip curls in disgust. It looks as if it's been sawed off, and really, Charon doesn't doubt it. To be so desperate for some old armament that they resorted to murder? Torture? These people are far more inhuman than they could ever make Charon out to be. He needs to get the hell _out_ before he or Max become next.

 

He leans over, trying not to move too quickly, and slips a small dagger out of his boot, sticking it between the door and the wall and trying to pry it open. The only thing he succeeds in doing is slicing his palm, and he curses, driving his fist into the wood in frustration and then dropping back to the ground as pain shoots through his body.

 

Arm wrapped around his torso, he half-crawls his way to the corner of the room, as far away from the door as he can get, and settles himself against the wall there, holding the dagger hidden at his side. He's not prepared to take on the entirety of the Outcasts with it, of course, but if Sibley decides to return to finish him off, or sends someone else to do it, he will not go down without a fight.

 

It's days, however, until the door opens, and Charon is stiff and weakened from thirst. He shifts a little and cracks his eyes open, and Sibley smiles calmly at him from the doorway.

 

“Well, well,” Sibley says, shutting the door behind him. “Look who’s still breathin’. Kinda forgot about you for a while, if I’m bein’ honest. Muties been givin’ us trouble. They—”

 

“Max?” Charon interrupts, and Sibley crosses the room, swinging his hand to land a blow. Though his reflexes are slower than usual, Charon still raises an arm and blocks it, scowling as he shoves back.

 

“You’re bold, ain’t ya?” Sibley asks, chuckling, gaze sweeping over Charon. “Don’t interrupt me, shuffler. In fact, don’t talk at all. That’s not what you’re here for.”

 

Charon scoffs, rolls his eyes, and looks away.

 

“Your boy’s still fightin’ away, or whatever he’s doin’ in there. Hasn’t died yet, so...that’s somethin’. But I’m not here about him. I’m here about Harvey. Do you know who that is? Hm? Look at me.”

 

Spitefully, Charon does not obey, and Sibley steps on Charon’s foot with the full weight of both him and his power armor. It’s painful even through Charon’s boot, but he only grits his teeth and deliberately turns his head even further to the side. No contract, no obedience; he’s going to take full advantage of the fact that, for once, the one who’s tormenting him does not own his right to resist.

 

Sibley scoffs, crossing his arms. “Alright. I can play rough, zombie. We’ll see how fast you listen after I slice the rest of your skin off and force it down your throat. Now, I’m sure you don’t remember much, but you shot one of us. His name is Harvey, and you see, Harvey’s gone into a coma. Doc doesn’t know if he’ll wake up.” He purses his lips, taking out a pair of brass knuckles and slipping them on. “And you know what? I really don’t think one little bullet’s enough to make you sorry.”

 

“I am not sorry,” Charon says, fingering the dagger and readying himself. “You cannot change that.”

 

“Oh? I can’t?” Sibley gestures over to the body on the floor. “Maybe you don’t know what we’re capable of. What I’m capable of.”

 

“I know you can send a child to his death,” Charon says, and Sibley kneels down right in front of him, using one arm to pin him to the wall.

 

“That’s the kindest thing I’ve done,” he murmurs, and Charon reacts before the man can do a thing, swinging his arm up and aiming the dagger to embed in the man’s throat. In the same moment, Sibley moves back, just slightly, and while the knife slices across the skin there, it’s not deep enough to kill.

 

“Jesus fuckin’—help!”

 

Charon growls in disappointment, watching as Sibley falls to the ground with the too-loud cry for backup, clutching his neck as blood runs from it but still disgustingly _alive,_  and then lunges on top of him to get a better shot. He swings again as the door slams open, but before it can land, Sibley throws him back against the wall with one punch to his jaw. Charon blinks hard, spitting blood, and then flinches back as one of the three Outcasts who had entered fires their gun just to the left of him. Sibley takes full advantage of the distraction and kicks out, heel of his armored boot landing directly over Charon’s still-healing wound.

 

Charon’s vision flashes white, and he nearly faints from the intensity of the pain. He slumps forward, gasping, and weakly reaches out for his dagger just as it's kicked away. 

 

“Sibley, oh, fuck—hey! Someone get the doc!”

 

“I’m...fine,” Sibley says, brushing away his comrade’s hands, struggling up. “He missed, or I’d be dead already.”

 

“I don’t know, it’s really bleeding. I think—”

 

“I said I’m fine. This little shit...” Sibley approaches Charon, lifts his foot, and stomps on the hand that had stabbed him as hard as he can. The feeling—the _sound—_ of his fingers breaking is enough to snap Charon out of his haze, but he can do nothing before Sibley kicks his chest again, hard enough it flips him onto his back and leaves him gasping for air.

 

“Hold him. Where’d that knife come from, huh?” Sibley demands as two of the Outcasts grab Charon’s wrists and ankles, pinning them to the floor. “What else you got hidden, fucker?” Sibley coughs, looking down at the blood on his hands. “I have to...the doctor. Owens. Get his armor off. Search him. If he tries that shit again, shoot him.”

 

“Gladly,” the Outcast still standing says, watching him go, and then he takes out a knife and kneels beside Charon, unceremoniously starting to slice the bottom half of his armor off. All the caps Max had spent to make it perfect for Charon, wasted. He gives a furious growl, trying to twist free, and Owens slices a deep gash into his thigh.

 

“Better stop squirmin’ while my knife’s this fuckin’ close to your junk! Might have an accident!”

 

Charon curses and spits at him, and the Outcast holding his wrists lifts his injured hand and slams it back down against the tile. Charon shudders, refusing to make a sound, and so the Outcast bends his fingers back. Charon gasps and finally goes still, squeezing his eyes shut, and reluctantly allows them to strip off his armor and take his boots, growling in displeasure but otherwise remaining compliant. Outnumbered and without a weapon, it's really his only option.

 

For now. 

 

“Good zombie,” Owens says, sheathing his knife and tossing Charon’s ruined possessions towards the door. “Christ, you are _disgusting_ to look at, you know that?"

 

The Outcast by Charon's head releases his broken, useless hand and instead grabs Charon’s hair, forcing his chin down to his chest. “Look at this fuckin’ thing. Look here, that's fuckin’ bone. I think that's part of his spine!"

 

Charon snarls as the same man tugs his shirt up, starting to writhe again. He can't even clench his free hand into a fist, much less land a blow with it, and so he twists slightly and instead tries to elbow the man's hand away. “Stop!”

 

The Outcast ignores him, running a gloved hand along his side up to his chest. “Look at this! You can see one of his fuckin’ ribs! Jesus!”

 

“Fucking stop feeling him up, you freak!” Owens spits, standing up. “You gonna pull his underwear down, next? I don’t wanna see that shit!”

 

The Outcast scoffs, fingers curiously stroking across exposed muscle, and Charon is going to _kill_ him.

 

“I just never seen one so close. Do you think he even still _has_ a—”

 

Humiliated under the prodding and absolutely not letting it continue to _that_ , Charon tilts his head back and spits in the man's face. The Outcast makes a sound of disgust and brings his hand back and up to clear it away, then grabs Charon's chin. "You fuckin'—"

 

It's a foolish decision on the Outcast's part; Charon jerks free and sinks his teeth down into the man's hand. The Outcast shrieks and pulls back, releasing him, and then grabs a piece of surgical tubing from the floor, wrapping it around Charon’s neck.

 

“The fuck was that, huh? I'll teach you to fuckin’ bite me, you bitch!”  

 

With a grunt, Charon slams his elbow back against the Outcast, yet the power armor only results in him hurting himself. In response to the attempt, the Outcast wraps the tubing a second time around, pulling tighter.

      

“Just kill him, Bailey,” the third says, and Charon can hardly hear over his own desperate wheezing. “He won't listen. He's half-feral already.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” His mouth twists into a demented grin, and he suddenly pulls Charon’s legs apart. “You wanna touch him a little more first?”

 

Charon chokes out an incoherent protest and tries to kick him away, but the Outcast only tightens his grip and forces Charon’s ankles back to the floor.

 

“C’mon, here, go ahead.”

 

“Suck my dick,” Bailey snaps, and the Outcast laughs, releasing Charon and standing up.

 

“You talkin’ to me or him?”

 

“Fuck off! I’m not a ghoulfucker!”

 

“Coulda fooled me,” Owens mutters, already standing back by the door, and Bailey spits on the floor, angrily pulling hard enough that the tubing cuts off Charon’s breath entirely.

 

“Piss off. I’m—stop squirmin', you shit! I told you to keep still! Fuck. I’m waitin' for Sibley. He’s got the call on this.”

 

Panicking as his vision starts to darken, his lungs burning, Charon flails his legs, twisting his body and clawing at the tubing, hardly even noticing the pain in his hand anymore. For someone who apparently isn't trying to kill him they're doing a very good job at it, and he can't die here, not like this; he just _can't._ Max needs him...Max needs help... _Max..._

 

Bailey jabs his knee into Charon’s back, right over his wound, and yet Charon barely feels it.

 

“Stay still and I'll let you go,” Bailey says, and Charon quickly obeys, eyes wide. Bailey does loosen the tubing but it’s nowhere near enough, and Charon's whispered plea goes unheard as Owens speaks again.

 

“Sibley should’ve fuckin’ killed him as soon as the kid went under. If you ask me, he was just asking for the fucker to stab him.”

 

“Pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to have a knife,” the third comments, rolling his eyes.

 

“Maybe Sibley should’ve searched him before, then. Pretty fucking stupid.”

 

“He said he did.”

 

“Well, it clearly wasn’t good enough, was it?”

 

“ _Well_ , nobody fucking asked you!”

 

“Weaver!” Sibley’s voice comes from down the hall, and they look up as the man rejoins them. “They can probably hear you all the way at Tenpenny! What the hell is going on?”

 

“Owens thinks you’re stupid and the new kid wants to fuck the zombie,” Weaver says, and Sibley shoots him a glare so sharp it makes Weaver step back.

 

“What are you, five? Shut it!”

 

“He’s bullshitting," Owens says, "I didn’t call you stupid."

 

“And I _don’t_ want to—oh, shit.”

 

The three of them turn as Bailey unwraps the tubing from Charon’s neck and pushes him forward. He hits the floor and lays motionless for a long second before convulsing and sucking in a desperate breath, and Bailey sighs in relief.

 

“Oh. I thought I killed him. He’s alive. Or…whatever ghouls are.”

 

"Good," Sibley says, running a finger along the new scar at his throat. "That'd be too easy on 'im." He grabs Charon’s shirt and drags him over to one of the pipes in the corner, tying his wrists tight and secure around it. Charon slumps against it, coughing, and Sibley points at the door. 

 

“All of you. Get out. Now.”

 

After they do, still bickering, Sibley kneels beside Charon, grabbing his hair and forcing his head back, delighted to see dark stripes of bruising already forming around his neck. “You still with me, ghoul?”

 

Charon blinks up at him, bleary-eyed and dazed, and Sibley smirks. “Nothin' smart to say? Guess you haven’t caught your breath yet. Well, while you’re listenin', I’ll tell you how this is gonna go.” He releases Charon and stands up, pulling a baton from his belt and extending it.

 

Charon gives it an uninterested glance, and Sibley puts the end under Charon’s chin, raising it up again.

 

“Every day that Harvey doesn’t wake up,” he says, “I’m gonna make you wish Olin killed you. You get no food. No water. I’m not even gonna give you a bucket to piss in. If you attack me again, or any of us, I’ll start takin' off fingers. Get me?”

 

Charon swears under his breath, and Sibley looms over him, too close.

 

“I said, _get me?”_

 

With incredible aim, Charon spits directly into Sibley’s eye. He grunts in satisfaction, and Sibley grimaces, using the back of his hand to wipe it away.

 

“You’ll learn,” he says, bringing the baton down with a _crack_ against Charon’s shoulder.

 

“After all, we’ve got a couple days to make up for.”

 

**x**

 

Four long, repetitive, _awful_ days go by before Sibley comes in and doesn't immediately lash out. Instead, he stays by the door and mutters that Harvey died in the middle of the night, as if Charon is supposed to care.

 

“You got anythin' to say about that, shuffler? Huh?”

 

Charon raises his head a bit, thinks for a moment, and then says, “Good.”

 

He knows damn well he shouldn’t be making Sibley any angrier, because the man has nearly killed him more than once now, and that was _before_ Harvey died, but he can’t help but enjoy the furious growl Sibley gives in response. As much pain as he has been in, he's thrilled to return some of it. Sibley swears, clenching his fists, and then approaches Charon, striking the baton against him until Charon lets out a strangled sound.

 

Sibley takes a step back, breathing hard, and smiles as Charon slumps against the pipe, grimacing, bright red blood soaking through his shirt under the darker stains already there. Sibley has seen how hard Charon always tries to keep himself quiet, and it delights Sibley beyond words each time he causes so much pain that he can audibly hear Charon breaking.

 

“I’ve let it be known that anyone angry about it can come take it out on the murderer himself,” he says. “ _Itself_. As much as I’ve enjoyed our time together, because this shit is therapeutic, I think I need a day off. Harvey was a good guy, though...everyone liked him. So I’m sure you won’t be alone very long, 'specially now that we got that body outta here. It stank more than you do. It's more inviting now, don't you think?"

 

Charon wants to retort, but there's just no point. All it will do is bring him more pain, and he needs to save his rapidly dwindling strength for more important things, like saving Max, or...or at least staying alive for him.

 

It takes less than five minutes after Sibley leaves for one of the grieving Outcasts to take up the offer, and then another just after that, and then Charon loses track of time and everything else besides how much pain they cause. He finds he is _very_ sorry while he’s choking on his own blood and tears, but he refuses to let the words out, and vows never to beg or plead or give these bastards what they want.

 

When the pain starts to outweigh the humiliation, however, he _really_ thinks about it. He's been through unimaginable suffering in his life, but never so constant, never so overwhelming, not since...since he had been _there,_ where they programmed him. The Outcasts aren't satisfied to just hurt him once, to punish him like an employer would; they go above and beyond that. They’ve injured him so terribly they've had to give him stimpaks, only to undo all the healing it had provided within the span of a few hours. It's not just about Harvey anymore; they take out any rage at all on him, ranting and cursing at him as they do. He thinks too much of Gob, of how _this_ is what it feels like to serve as a personal punching bag, and regrets that he won't be able to keep his promise to come back, won't be able to put a bullet through Moriarty’s head and free the only friend he's ever had from this torture.

 

As if it all wasn't enough, he falls ill, pushing through a fever they won't treat, and is honestly debating whether or not he can even survive another day of this when finally Sibley comes in holding a water bottle instead of his favored baton.

 

Charon still instinctively shrinks when the Outcast approaches, bracing himself, and Sibley chuckles.

 

“Relax. Just you and me again. Thought you’d had enough of the rest of ‘em, you know, since McCoy went a little...overboard, yesterday. Glad to see you're awake. How’s your head feelin’?”

 

Charon doesn't grant him any attention, but it just so happens to feel exactly like someone just smacked it with a fucking tire iron. 

 

“Good? Good. Told ‘em all not to do somethin’ that could kill you. Don’t want you dyin' just yet, so...you know, it's probably best that they all start spendin’ that energy out on the Muties instead.”

 

It takes a moment for Charon to realize what this means, and relief overwhelms him to the point of his eyes watering. He takes a deep breath and releases it, slowly. He just might be able to survive this if it’s only Sibley. He still has a chance.

 

“Gonna say somethin'? Don't be ungrateful, now…”

 

“Thank you,” Charon says, voice almost too hoarse to hear, and Sibley grins.

 

“Good zombie. Now, here.” He grabs Charon’s hair and pulls his head back, putting the bottle to his lips. “Drink.”

 

Charon hesitates, wary. He'd just been given water not too long ago...and now again? So soon?

 

Sibley scoffs. “Have I drugged you yet? No? Then drink! It's just fuckin’ water! You need it. You were babblin' to yourself yesterday, and when I asked who you were talkin' to, you said _God._ ”

 

 _Gob._ Charon stifles a chuckle, because any god that would force him through two hundred years of agony is the last person he would ever want to speak with, hallucinating or not, and then finally opens his mouth.

 

“There you go,” Sibley says, tilting the bottle, and Charon greedily downs the water in just a few seconds, closing his eyes and holding back a groan. It brings him only the slightest relief, and when it's empty he almost can't stop a plea from escaping his parched lips for _more, please, more_.

 

Almost. He, somehow, keeps himself silent, clinging to whatever's left of his dignity. He catches his breath, waiting to see what the man will do next, and then, when no violence comes, he dares to ask, “How...how long has it been?”

 

Sibley crushes the bottle in his hands, chuckling when Charon tenses from the sudden noise. “Why? Did you have somethin’ planned?”

 

It’s hard to tell what will trigger the man’s anger, and so Charon keeps his voice very low as he speaks. “No. It is Max. He will...he will dehydrate, he will—”

 

“You really are sick, aren't ya? I already told you fifty fuckin' times. The pod put him in some kind of stasis thing. It'll be just like he never left. Not that it'll fuckin’ matter after we kill him.”

 

He should probably be more concerned that he doesn't remember, or that he can so vividly recall a conversation with Gob that obviously never happened, but it's nothing they'll do anything about, anyway, so there isn't a point. He shifts, drawing one of his knees up and resting his aching head against it; between the never-ending abuse and the deprivation of food and water, he almost doesn't have the strength to hold himself upright anymore. “He...does not need to die. He has...he has done nothing. He was—” He cuts off in a fit of coughing, and then curls tighter into himself. His throat is raw from the screams he hasn't been able to hold back and unused to speech, and he can hardly force himself to continue. “He…’s done...nothing wrong.”

 

“Other than fuckin' a ghoul? Sure. I guess he’s a little angel.”

 

“I have...told you the truth. I...am only his bodyguard. We never did anything...like that.”

 

“ _Sure._ ”

 

“He came to help you. And this…? This is how...you repay him?”

 

“Please. If he had known, he wouldn't have risked his life for us. And that's why I didn't fuckin' tell him. I'm not stupid.”

 

“You can... _ugh_ …”

 

Sibley watches as Charon rubs his forehead against his knee, trying to get relief from the pain. The friction re-opens a wound at his brow, and the new blood is only just noticeable against all of the dried on his skin. He looks like something out of a nightmare, but Sibley feels no remorse, no sympathy, and certainly no fear as he looks down at his captive.

 

“Still got a little headache, huh?”

 

“You have me,” Charon finally manages, ignoring the taunt. “Kill me, and...and let him go. It is...a fair trade. I am who killed your man.”

 

“Oh, I forgot about that,” Sibley says, kicking him, and Charon chokes back a moan. “And have him take any of the fucking gear we’ve been bustin’ our asses trying to get? No. He’ll probably want to kill us, anyways. I locked him in there.”

 

“And….tortured his employee.”

 

“Is it really torture? Because from where I’m standin', it seems like we just gave you what you deserved.”

 

“And who...are _you_ to decide that?”

 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Sibley grabs Charon by his throat and squeezes, pushing him back against the wall. His head smacks against it, and he instantly throws up tinged-red water over Sibley’s arm.

 

“Fuck!" Sibley reels back, and Charon pulls his legs up under him, leaning over as far as he can in an attempt to protect himself, heaving until nothing comes up.

 

“God, you're pathetic. Look at you. You know, I thought you’d figured it out by now, but obviously your head’s still fucked from yesterday, so I’ll give you a little recap. I decide _everything_ for you, _ghoul_. I decide what to do with you, and I'll decide when you’re no longer useful, and when I’m gonna put a fuckin' bullet in your nasty rotting skull.” He grabs Charon’s hair, yanking. “Open your eyes and look at me before I cut them out."

 

Charon gags again, groaning, his eyes rolling as he verges on unconsciousness. He’s half-tempted to continue disobeying in hopes that the man just ends it all, but that just isn’t a choice he gets to make. He is loyal to his employer, to Max, and he must stay alive as long as he can, even if there's no immediately foreseeable way to be of any help. Help...he needs _help..._

 

He forces his eyes open, blinking hard and raising them to look at the Outcast...both of them...? Oh, his _head..._

 

Sibley smiles, releasing him. “You don’t even fight anymore. We actually beat it out of you. I like that.”

 

Charon groans again. “M-my...head…”

 

“Yeah? What about it?”

 

It almost hurts too much for Charon to think straight. He coughs and grimaces, and then forces out, “It...I need…stimpak.”

 

“No. Gave you one while you were out yesterday, and that's enough. We’ve been wastin' too many on you.”

 

“Hurts…”

 

“Good. You're _supposed_ to be in pain.”

 

“I have a fever…”

 

“And if it gets worse, I'll throw some ice on you, okay?"

 

“I do not deserve this!” Charon exclaims without thinking, and Sibley smirks.

 

“Yeah. You really do. You're nothin' but a worthless fuckin’ corpse. What did that kid say to you that made you think you weren't, huh? Just because he's human, and crazy enough to let you stick your rotten dick in him, doesn't mean you're human, too. Doesn't make you normal. Just means he's just as nasty as you."

 

Charon mutters a few curses, offended that this man thinks it's perfectly okay to call his employer such awful, untrue things. Sibley grabs Charon’s chin, lifts it up, and says, “What was that?”

 

He submits too easily, focused only on avoiding more pain he isn't sure he can take. “I said nothing,” he mumbles, and Sibley smiles.

 

“That was the right answer.” He runs a hand through Charon’s hair, rough and condescending and _nothing_ like how Max had, and Charon flinches.

 

With a chuckle, Sibley steps back. “Think I’m gonna go get myself some nice, juicy Brahmin steak...how does that sound to you?”

 

The mention of food only makes him feel sicker, but he can't tell if it's from the head injury, or whatever illness he has, or from how terribly empty his stomach is. He’s never been this hungry, not even under his worst employers, and somehow the nausea he’s experiencing now might actually be less miserable than the hunger pangs.

 

“No? Huh. I thought for sure you’d be a steak kind of guy. What do you eat, huh?”

 

Charon’s gaze slowly sweeps over Sibley as he licks his lips, and the expression on Sibley’s face is enough that he lets out a hysterical chuckle, then breaks into another fit of coughing that only makes his head hurt worse.

 

“Ugh. Shoulda known. _Zombie._ You think you'll start eatin' your own arm or some shit if I leave you long enough? Hm. I’m sure Bailey would be interested in that. Probably do an experiment or somethin’. Were you up when he came in last night? I told him not to, the little shit, but he’s so into his fuckin’ _science_ or whatever.”

 

Vaguely, Charon can now recall the bastard dragging him to the middle of the room and prodding at him under bright lights, taking notes on a clipboard. Something had been said about wanting to _study_ him, or what was left, before one of them ended up killing him...but he’d been barely conscious, in and out, and can’t remember anything else. He hopes there isn’t anything else _to_ remember.

 

“But I’d rather him be into science than into fuckin’ ghouls. ‘Least we got that whole mess cleared up. Maybe after this I'll keep you around to be his labrat. That's the only use you'll have, anyway, like this. I thought about puttin' you out to fight the Muties, but you're sure as shit not strong enough for that anymore. Hell, were you ever? Coulda just been followin' that kid around to fuck him for all I know. Is that why? Is it?"

 

It's absurd. The only employer that's ever showed him any respect at all, and _he's_ the one they choose to harass Charon about. He could reply, could say _no_ , but hell…

 

When has anyone ever listened to that word?

 

He laughs again, delirious and unable to control it, and Sibley looks so downright confused that it only makes him laugh harder, even as Sibley pins him to the wall again.

 

“Shit. Barely a month and you've already lost it. I gotta say, I thought you'd last longer.”

 

A month? _Only_ a month? And Charon abruptly goes silent, trembling, because no, it’s been _two centuries,_ and maybe he just can't hold it together anymore.

 

Sibley smirks as he notices tears forming in his captive’s eyes and gets even closer, too goddamn close. He looks just as twisted as Ahzrukhal, just as sadistic as every employer he's had except the one this bastard sent to die.

 

“Are you gonna start cryin'?” Sibley asks. “Huh? _Again?_ ”

 

That's not what he's going to do at all. Instead, Charon smiles, lurches forward, and bites the man’s nose.

 

Sibley shrieks in pain and pulls back, flailing, and covers the missing tip with both hands. Charon spits out the small piece of flesh, chuckling again, blood that is for once not his own running down his chin. If only Sibley’s neck had been closer...

 

“You shit! You fuckin' bastard!” Sibley shouts, and then he takes out his pistol, aims it at Charon’s knee, and fires.

 

As impulsive and dangerous as the decision had been, this is still not the reaction Charon expected. He lets out a strangled scream and doubles over, watching helplessly as blood starts to run from the resulting wound.

 

“Is it still funny?" Sibley demands, kicking the injury. "Huh? Is it still fuckin’ funny?”

 

Charon cries out again, shaking, and then the door bursts open, two Outcasts stepping in with their weapons raised.

 

“Sir—? Jesus, what happened? Your nose—oh my god—”

 

Sibley groans, swinging his gun back around and firing into Charon’s other knee. Charon jerks and wails, tears uncontrollably pouring down his cheeks, and then presses his face against his arm, gasping for air.

 

“Wrap his fuckin’ legs,” Sibley orders. “Get the bullets out, or don't. I don't care. Just stop the bleeding. No stimpaks. Not a damn one.”  

 

“Do you...do you need help gettin’ to—”

 

Sibley raises the gun again, this time towards his own comrade. “Touch me and you'll be diggin’ a bullet outta your leg, too. Fuck outta my way.”

 

“Yes sir,” the Outcast says, quickly stepping aside, and then lets out a long breath when Sibley slams the door. He crouches beside Charon while the second untucks a bottle of vodka from under his arm and takes a swig.

 

“Seriously? Put that down and go get me some gauze!"

 

The Outcast gives an airy sigh and kicks the used roll from the middle of the floor over. “This'll work fine.”

 

Charon yelps as the Outcast prods at his knees, and the Outcast punches him across the face with enough force it nearly knocks him out; he only wishes it had.

 

“Shut your goddamn mouth before I bash your teeth down your throat,” the Outcast hisses, unsheathing the knife at his waist to slice into the torn flesh of one of them, searching carelessly for the bullet. It elicits another even louder cry, and he growls, swiping his knife across Charon’s shirt and ripping it off, shoving it into Charon’s mouth before going back to the wound.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, prying the bullet out after a minute and then moving to the other as Charon gives muffled groans against the cloth. “Gonna have to give him a stimpak anyway.”

 

“Why?” the second asks, taking a few unsteady steps forward, and the first scoffs.

 

“Bullet shattered the bone in that one. I don't think it'll even close. Definitely won't heal."

 

“So? He's gonna be fuckin’ dead soon, anyway. Long as the bleeding stops, I say we healed him.”

 

“We? Fuck off, you damn drunk. I'm gonna have to use his shirt because you're too wasted to walk down to medical.”

 

“I'd just really rather not go where Sibley is right now. Thanks.”

 

Charon pants for breath as the second casing clatters to the ground, sagging back. The Outcast pulls his shirt back out of his mouth, tears it into two strips, and then looks up at the other.

 

“Give me the booze.”

 

“What? No...it's mine.”

 

“I don't want Sibley on my ass because they got infected."

 

Charon's eyes open wide at the words, and he starts to breathe harder, shaking his head as the second Outcast approaches to reluctantly hand his bottle over. No. _No,_ that will _kill_ him. “No,” he pleads, very softly, “n-no, do not!”

 

With a chuckle, the Outcast stands up and says, “You’re right. I should just disinfect the rest of you while I’m at it!”

 

“ _No!_ ”

 

“Hmm...say please.”

 

Without even taking a moment to think, Charon blurts out, “Please! Please do not!”

 

The Outcast hums, casually taking a drink and swishing the liquid around, nudging Charon’s leg. “Look at me. Say you're sorry for what you did.”

 

A quiet sob escapes Charon’s cracked lips, and he is trembling as he looks up. He knows how disgustingly pathetic he must appear, and yet he can't bring himself to care. He just doesn't have the strength. “I am sorry...I am sorry...I cannot... _please_ …”

 

The Outcast smirks, raising the bottle over Charon’s head. “It’s a little too late for that, don't you think?” he says, and tilts it over.

 

Somehow, it might hurt worse than anything else they've done. The pain whites out reality as alcohol trickles into every wound, every skin-lacking crevice, and into the holes of his nose and his mouth, choking him. He can hear himself screaming as the Outcast douses his knees, too, but he can't stop it, can't even _breathe,_ every godawful nerve in his body on fire.

 

They are laughing, now, and he is _suffocating._ Sobs he cannot stifle wrench themselves from his throat, and he is dizzy just from the effort of dragging air into his aching lungs, tasting blood and vodka and the salt of his own tears on his tongue. The pain is overwhelming, and it sinks him into memories he doesn't want to return to, brings him back to the cold, dark cell where he had been kept prisoner for...how long? How long had he been there? How long had they experimented on him, crafted him into what they wanted?  _How long?_

 

A panic he can't quell settles heavily into him, disorienting him even further. He chokes on a cry of his employer’s name as the makeshift bandages are tightened around his knees, and it only makes the muffled, echoing laughter in his ears grow louder.

 

Max…he just wants _Max…_

 

His consciousness starts to falter, then, darkness edging into the corners of his mind and vision, and with it comes a merciful numbness. The pipe is cool and steady against his cheek, almost soothing, and as everything begins to fade, he pictures it to be Max’s hand, cupping against his face while the other brushes rhythmically through his hair.  

 

 _You're gonna be okay,_ he can almost hear Max say, and he tries his goddamned hardest to pretend it's true, to pretend he isn't going to die here, cold and alone, at the hands of the bastards who had ripped away the one he was supposed to protect, the one he cared too much about, and the one that had, so very briefly, made him start to feel almost human again.

 

But he can't. And as he closes his eyes, he decides that, really, he should have known better than to think anything so good would last.


	20. Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued support, it means the entire world to me :3
> 
> Warning towards the end for a flashback and mentions of (past) rape/non-con.

It’s the dead of night when the pod opens again, six weeks to the day after it closed. Max blinks his eyes open, groaning and throwing his arm up over his face. Why’s it so goddamn bright…? The hell is going on…? His mind is completely blank...

 

There’s an Outcast standing guard against the wall, and Max hears him call for someone to grab Sibley, and it all comes back to him in a rush. Sibley. _Sibley,_ that bastard! He scrambles out and crumples to the floor, his legs refusing to support his weight, and cries out, “Charon!”

 

“Well, look who's back with the livin’,” Sibley says, approaching Max with a wicked grin on his face, and Max clumsily scoots away.

 

“Fuck! You _fucker!_ Get away from me!”

 

Sibley cocks an eyebrow, watching him in amusement. “How was it? Cold? Got what you need to open the armory?”

 

Max scrabbles at the wall beside him, trying to pull himself up. Too slowly, feeling is starting to return to his limbs, and once he can, he sticks his middle finger up at Sibley and spits at his feet. “Fuck you! Fuck the armory!”

   

Sibley reaches down to grab Max’s wrist, yanking him up. “Better watch your fuckin' mouth, kiddo."

 

With a yelp of pain, Max tries to force his shaking legs to hold him, slapping at Sibley’s hand. “Let go! Where's Charon? Where is he?”

 

“He stepped out,” Sibley says, tightening his grip. “Stand up on your own. Come on. It hasn't been that long.”

 

“How long? How fuckin’ long?”

 

“Month and a half?” Sibley guesses, shrugging. “Longer than we thought you’d last. I said, stand up!”

 

“Sibley, please,” McGraw says, coming through as the gathered Outcasts make way for him. He taps Sibley’s arm, and Sibley grunts and forces a smile, releasing Max. Max staggers and leans heavily back against the wall, panting, and pushes his sweat-soaked hair out of his face as he looks up at McGraw.

 

“I want Charon, please. Please tell me he’s okay. Please? What did you do with him? I want him back. He's mine.”

 

“Are you sure about that?” Sibley asks, almost sweetly. “Because I did everythin’ short of fuckin’ him to make him _mine._ ”

 

Max cries out in frustration and lurches forward to throw a punch; Sibley steps back, chuckling as Max trips and falls at his feet.

 

"Awh, did that make you mad, boy?"

 

“Sibley,” McGraw says, in the same tone used to scold a child, and Sibley scoffs.

 

“I’ll give him his pet as soon as he opens the armory!”

 

“You’re not the one who’s got the key,” Max snarls. “Give him back or you’re on your goddamn own.”

 

“You think we’re just gonna let you leave?” the Outcast to his left hisses, grabbing his arm and jerking him to his feet, and then McGraw holds his hands up.

 

“Stop. Release him. Sibley, for God’s sake, get him his friend. Now!”

 

Max staggers as the Outcast shoves him forward, panting, and Sibley looks him over before smiling. “Fine. You really want him?” With a nod he pushes past the others and then returns a minute later, dragging Charon by his arm along behind him and then tossing him to the floor. “Here you go.”

 

The breath leaves Max’s lungs, and he swears he feels his heart stop, especially when Charon doesn’t get up, doesn’t fight, doesn’t do anything but _lay_ there, deathly still. “Jesus!” He drops to his knees at Charon’s side, tears welling up in his eyes as he looks his friend over. There’s so much blood on him...too many wounds to count...he can’t even tell if Charon is breathing. He presses two fingers against Charon's wrist, feeling his own heartbeat pounding wildly in his throat. It takes a few tries, but he finally finds a pulse; too weak and too slow, but there.

 

“No…” he whimpers, putting Charon’s hand to his own cheek. “Charon...Charon, please, please wake up...God, no, no, _no_...what did you do to him? What the fuck did you do?"

 

“I'll tell you what I'm gonna do if you don't open the door,” Sibley says, pointing his gun down. “I think he's bled enough, but that's really up to you.”

 

Max protectively curls his body over Charon’s and shouts, “Don't! Please! He didn't do anything!"

 

“Well, he did, actually. Killed one of us and bit half my fuckin’ nose off.” Sibley nudges Charon roughly with his foot, humming in satisfaction when Charon gives no response. “But he's sorry now. He's really sorry. Now get the fuck up and open the goddamn door!”

 

“No, no, don’t touch him! Go to hell!" He can feel Charon trembling violently against him, breaths shallow and uneven, and he shakes his head. "Charon...wake up. You gotta wake up. _Please…_ ”

 

“Get up,” Sibley says, cocking the gun. “ _Now_ , boy!”

 

Shakily, Max obeys. He presses a gentle kiss to Charon’s forehead, feeling an alarming, feverish warmth beneath his lips, and then finally pulls himself up. As he stumbles his way over to the terminal on the wall, he glances back to find two Outcasts yanking Charon to his feet.

 

“Stop! Stop! Leave him alone! What are you doing?”

 

“Shut up and type,” Sibley growls, and takes Charon’s chin in his hand, putting the gun over a wound at his temple and pressing. “Ghoul. Hey. Open your eyes. I'm keepin' my promise, eh? Look. Your boy’s here.”

 

Vision blurred by tears, Max lets out a quiet sob as Charon still doesn't move. Surely he had been mistaken; there’d been no pulse. Charon looks dead. He's dead. They killed him.

 

And then Charon groans and shifts slightly in their grip, eyes flickering open, and Max feels a relief like he never has before, taking a step towards him. “ _Charon_ —”

 

Sibley applies enough pressure that Charon _whimpers_ , and Max freezes; he would have never thought Charon could sound so...so _small,_ and it makes his heart ache.

 

“Ah, ah, ah!" Sibley says. "Get back. Go. You'll see him when you unlock it.”

 

“Please, no, _please_ , just let me—”

 

“Are you really gonna make me shoot him? Really? Does he look like he needs that?"

 

Max shakes his head, sniveling as he pulls the keyboard out of the wall. “Don’t. Just don’t." He meets Charon’s eyes, or at least, notices them looking in his direction, but Charon doesn't seem to actually see him; they quickly close again, and even Sibley's aggressive prodding can't get them back open.

 

“Shame,” Sibley sighs, gesturing for the Outcasts to drop him, and Max can’t stand to see them throw him down so carelessly, to see them step over him like he doesn't matter, like he's trash, like he's already dead.

 

Charon chokes out a pained moan as one of them steps _on_ him, and God, Max is going to kill them. He’s going to fucking _destroy_ them.

 

Finally looking away, Max glares at McGraw over his other shoulder. "You lied to me. You all lied to me. You hurt him..."

 

“I didn't condone the lying,” McGraw says. “I ordered my men to be outright with you. I was not aware your companion was being treated as such.”

 

“Bullshit!”

 

“You know,” Sibley interrupts, holding up a finger, “for the record, I think him and Olin are the only ones who _didn’t_ take a swing at your pet. Oh, well...actually, no. I forgot. She shot him. Right here." He shoves his heel into Charon's back, and Charon groans again.

 

"I'm gonna fuckin'—"

 

The Outcast closest to him grabs Max and shakes him, twisting his arm behind his back and shoving his face up against the computer screen.

 

"Owens—"

 

"No," Owens growls, waving McGraw off, "the only thing you're gonna fucking do, kid, is open that door. I'm getting really, _really_ sick of hearing you whine. She shot him after he shot one of _us._ He deserved it. He deserved every goddamn thing we did to him. Every goddamn thing. Now open it!"

 

"I can't if you break my arm, asshole!"

 

"Let him go!" McGraw orders, and Owens does so, stepping back with his arms raised.

 

"No one touch him again. Let him be."

 

"Gee, thanks," Max snaps, seething, and hooks his Pip-Boy up to the terminal. “How do I know you won’t just kill us after I get this open, huh?”

 

“You have my word,” McGraw replies, as if that's worth _anything_ after this, as if Max is ever going to trust anyone _ever again._ “Once it’s open, you are free to take what you can carry and leave.”

 

“And what about him?” Max demands, pointing back at Charon. “You want him to walk out, too?"

 

“Oh, I made sure he couldn’t,” Sibley chimes in, cheerfully, and kicks one of Charon’s crudely bandaged knees. Charon gags, curling into himself, and Max slams his fist against the wall with enough force to bloody his knuckles just as the doors behind him hiss and part.

 

“Fuckin’ _stop!_ There’s your stupid guns! Get away from him!”

 

“Sibley, for God’s sake,” McGraw says, and Sibley puts his hands behind his back, giving a subtle nod at Owens and then sauntering up to McGraw's side.

 

“Oh, Protector. You know, there was somethin’ I wanted to talk to you about…”

 

Charon groans again, loudly, and Max shoves past them to kneel beside him again. “Charon—”

 

“No,” he mumbles, voice so quiet it’s barely audible, eyes twitching beneath his lids as if he’s dreaming, and Max struggles to hold back anymore tears as he cups Charon’s cheek, looking him over. God, he looks so _sick..._

 

“I’m here, I’m—"

 

Charon flinches, tossing his head to the side. “St-stop, no, _stop_. Do not...hurt 'im. P-please...I will... _Max_...” Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, and Max wipes it away with a finger.

 

“What? No, I’m okay! I’m okay. I’m...I’m not hurt. I’m gonna get you some stimpaks, okay? Please just—”

 

Directly to his left, an Outcast lays a hand over the gun at his waist. Max is immediately hyper-aware of his surroundings, of how suddenly there is an even larger presence of armed Outcasts, and it takes a mere second for him to come to the conclusion that he was never supposed to leave here alive.

 

“Traitor,” McGraw hisses, backing away from Sibley, and Max sweeps his arm up to grab the gun from the nearby Outcast. Without hesitation he fires it into the man’s head and then shoves him so his body lands over Charon, hoping it will deflect any deadly fire. Then, just as bullets start flying, Max lunges into the armory, hiding behind the suit of power armor and struggling with the latch on the back; the strength he’d gained in the simulation has vanished, and he feels disgustingly weak, taking too long to get it open and paying for it as a bullet grazes across his arm.

 

“Fuck, don’t let him—”

 

 _Too late._ Max giggles madly as the armor closes around him, grabbing for the Gauss rifle beside him and loading a round into it as several bullets ping off the metal. Useless. Their guns are _weak,_ nothing compared to what was used in Anchorage, and his armor is stronger. With it, _he_ is stronger.

 

He fires, knocking one of the Outcasts clean across the hall, and the second, Owens, stares in absolute horror at the weapon just as Max aims it in his direction.

 

“What the fuck?” he mutters, fumbling in an attempt to still raise his own gun. Max clicks his tongue and takes the man out with another shot, humming to himself as he moves out into the hallway. His steps are a bit awkward and clumsy from the weight of the armor, but as he fires three times more, each bullet hits its mark and drops a body. He giggles again, blinking away tears; even with his broken glasses, even with his limbs shaking from lack of use, the skills he had learned traveled from that reality to this one. Adrenaline rushes through his veins, and revenge fuels him as he throws another Outcast to the floor. Blood splatters over the floor, over his armor, as he fires again, and again, and _again,_ until the hall is quiet, until he’s standing in front of the last Outcast, cornered into a closet.

 

“Please,” Olin whimpers, raising her hands up. She’s crying, bleeding from where a stray bullet hit her in the stomach, and she cowers as Max steps closer and presses the rifle against her collarbone. Back against the wall, unable to escape, she lets out a wail and shakes her head. “No! No, no, please don’t. I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m not,” Max says, and remains steady even as her lifeless body falls at his feet, more blood pooling at his feet. So much blood...

 

He shudders, looking down at her, and then turns back down the hall, finding that, disappointingly, Sibley is already dead, his lifeless eyes staring up past Max. It's possible McGraw was the one who ended him, and that's just not goddamn good enough. It's not _fair._ He’d wanted to do everything done to Charon right back. He’d wanted to make the fucker _bleed._ Where’s the justice in a quick death?

 

Right. _Justice._ As if there’s any of that in this godforsaken Wasteland.

 

He lets out a shout of anger that echoes off the blood-stained walls, scowling, and then aims his weapon and fires into the bastard for the mere satisfaction of it. He doesn’t even wince at the mess that results, though his stomach twists, and then he kicks the body out of his way and returns to Charon’s side, pushing the dead Outcast off of him. Charon sucks in a breath and coughs as the weight is removed, probably a little uncomfortable but thankfully unharmed, and Max smiles.

 

“Sorry...that was heavy...but I had to,” he says, stroking his hand over Charon’s face. He'd missed Charon so much...even just the way his skin felt against Max’s own. The contact makes Charon flinch again, moaning, and Max shushes him, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

 

“I’m gonna find you some stimpaks, okay? And some blankets. They’re all dead. All of the ones here, anyway. You’re safe. You're safe now. Can you...can you hear me? Can you say something?”

 

Charon doesn't respond, but he keeps breathing, and, for now, that has to be enough.

 

Max finds his bag stuffed in a locker while scrambling to find supplies, but it’s mostly empty, and he’s left to grab his things back as he finds them scattered across the base. They had never even planned on him making it out of the simulation alive...how could he have been so stupid? How could he have trusted these people for even a second? There are beds upstairs, but he won’t risk trying to carry Charon up the narrow steps while still trying to remember how to even properly _walk_ in the armor; instead he drags one of the mattresses down to the main room and covers it with a few blankets, making it as comfortable as he can before returning to the hall.

 

With the power armor’s boost to his strength, he easily manages to lift Charon up and get him to the bed. He places a pillow under his head and then exits the armor to sit beside him, closely inspecting just how bad a shape he's in and deciding what can be done to help. Having grown up watching his own father treat others, Max is confident he at least won't make it any worse. This won’t be like the men he’d watched fade away in Anchorage—or, in the simulation...whatever. He won’t let Charon die. He just _won’t._ Not after everything he’d been through, and after everything he'd done to get back.

 

He takes a clean washcloth and soaks it in irradiated water, holding it against each wound until the skin starts to stitch together and wiping away as much blood and dirt as he can, and then gasps as he catches sight of the gash on Charon’s thigh. He gently pushes the leg of Charon’s boxers up, turning the light of his Pip-Boy on, and it’s worse the longer he looks at it. It’s badly infected, maybe even the cause of Charon’s fever, and he injects two stimpaks into it to be safe. Charon’s breath catches, his face twisting up in pain, and then he gives a groan of protest as Max gently turns him onto his stomach to treat his back.

 

“You’re okay,” he says, voice cracking, as he gently pets Charon's hair. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be just fine. I...I know what I’m doing, okay? My dad taught me a lot. And I...I got hurt a lot when I was younger. And...well, I...usually treated myself. So I know. Jesus, there’s so many cuts...” And scars...so many scars, all over...but he knows damn well he shouldn’t be looking. He wouldn’t like if Charon nosed around _his_ body while he was fucking unconscious. He forces himself to focus only the task at hand, taking a deep breath, and says. “I tried to make it hurt, when I killed them. But I think mostly it just hurt me. And it didn’t make you any better.”

 

He turns Charon over again and bites his lip, running his finger across the mark of the gunshot wound just below Charon’s heart. It just isn't fair. They deserved so much worse...and Charon deserved so much better. He starts to unwrap Charon’s knees, as carefully as he can, and Charon gasps and groans, making fists in the blanket beneath him. "Nn...no..."

 

“I have to, I'm sorry,” Max says, lifting up the edges of the blood-soaked cloth—Charon's own shirt, he realizes—and wincing at the extent of the injuries. They'd _shot_ him. Three fucking times. They'd shot him and bandaged him with nothing but the shirt off his back, left him practically naked and freezing cold...there's just no justice. If there was, Max would have been able to torture them all back. Instead they lay in the hall, dead, unable to suffer, while Charon fights for his life. 

 

If he _ever_ comes across another Outcast...

 

He shakes his head, tries to push the anger away for now, and cuts the strips of cloth off. One is worse than the other, but neither of them are something he can fix. He has to wonder if a stimpak is even going to help. Charon needs a doctor...but he can't travel in this state, even if Max carries him, which is going to be a damn task all it's own. Max at least has to get the fever down, and then...and then hopefully he'll have something figured out. 

 

He gives both knees a stimpak, wraps them with clean gauze, and then leaves them alone, wiping away the tears that have started seeping from under Charon's closed lids. 

 

"I know it hurts...I'm sorry. I am. Here, I have Med-X, too.” He sticks a dose into Charon’s arm, watching his expression to see if it changes at all. When it doesn’t, as if nothing had been given to him at all, Max has to wonder if it, like everything else, affects ghouls differently. Another would kill a human...does he really want to risk it?

 

He decides to wait, instead laying several blankets over Charon’s shivering body and then pressing a bottle of water to his lips, supporting his head. “This’ll make you feel better,” he says, tilting it; most of the water trickles down Charon’s chin, and he adjusts his grip. “Hey...listen, please, you have to drink. Drink! Th-that’s an order. You have to now.”

 

Charon's eyelids flicker but do not open, and he chokes for a moment on the water before finally swallowing some. Max knows it was more of a reflex than Charon having heard and obeyed him, but he still nods, planting another kiss to Charon’s temple. “Good, good. Thank you. You...oh, God...Charon, I…” He trails off, stammering, and then he’s crying again.

 

“I didn’t mean to leave. You know that, right? I didn’t mean to let them do this. I didn’t. You have to know that. I didn’t want to, okay? They made me. You know they did. We shoulda never come here...I'm so sorry. Please. Please wake up. You can’t leave me. I went through _hell_ , Charon...but I stayed alive for you, so you gotta stay alive for me. You hear me? You have to. That’s an order! You have to listen to me! Please. You have to. You’re not allowed to die." He sniffles, petting Charon's hair. "Everything's okay now, you know? It is. There's a lot of water here, and food, and I got you a pan so you can...you know,  _go,_ and...and it's all okay now! You're safe, and you have to get better. I need you. I _need_ you, Charon. I like you so, _so_ much, you asshole, and you have to be okay!”

 

Charon takes a slightly deeper breath, and Max tries to find comfort in that, closing his eyes. He’s so tired...and so cold. So cold. He’s been so cold for so goddamn long…and Charon is still shaking...would it be wrong for him to get closer?

 

After a moment of thought he pulls the blankets back and curls under them, as close to Charon as he can get while leaving one blanket between them. He lays an arm over Charon, hugging him close, and closes his eyes. It's not much warmth, but it's more than he's had in months, and exhaustion pulls him into sleep before he can stop it.

 

He wakes sometime later, feeling no better, to the sound of Charon coughing, and he jolts, sitting up and lifting Charon’s head to rest on his knee.

 

To his surprise, Charon’s eyes are open, and he cups Charon’s cheeks. “Hey. You’re okay, just breathe!”

 

Charon coughs several more times, chest heaving, and then gasps, “W-w...pl’s...wa...”

 

“Water?”

 

Charon nods frantically, and Max scrambles up, grabbing two bottles and returning, supporting Charon’s head again as he presses one to his mouth. Charon inhales sharply and desperately chokes it down, shaking, and then brokenly pleads for more.

 

“Just...just take it easy. You'll make yourself sick!"

 

Charon hiccups out something too close to a sob, and Max gives in, lifting the other bottle to his mouth and watching as Charon downs it just as quickly before slumping back, panting. His eyes are a little more focused than before, and he freezes as he only now seems to notice Max, staring up at him in nothing less than utter bewilderment.

 

“Mmm...ax?”

 

Max smiles, nodding. “Yeah. I’m here. You’re okay. You’re…you’re still really hot...shit...hold on." He grabs for another Med-X and injects it, then holds a second in his hand. "Do you need another Med-X? Is that why it's not working? Because you're a ghoul?"

 

Charon doesn't even seem to realize he's being spoken to, still just _staring,_ and Max frowns, raising the syringe in front of Charon's face. "Hey. Med-X. Am I going to kill you or help you if I give you more?"

 

"Mmm...Max..."

 

"Fuck's sake." Taking a deep breath, Max gives him the dose. Charon winces, glancing down at his arm, but he doesn't _die,_ so that's a good sign. Maybe two will work. It has to.

 

"Charon...I didn’t mean to leave you...I didn’t, okay? I promise. I didn’t mean it. And...and I didn’t mean to be mad at you, okay? I was, but...but I didn’t know what happened. I didn’t know you were hurt! I’m sorry. You're really hurt..."

 

“Stop, _please_ , I…” Charon suddenly says. He squeezes his eyes shut, turning his head, and then blinks hard back up at him. “No. No, you…you cannot be…”

 

Max stays quiet, watching as, so very weakly, Charon reaches up to touch Max’s cheek, and then tugs on his hair. Startled when Max grunts in pain, he manages, “You...are...real?”

 

Christ...Charon thinks he's imagining this? No wonder he looks so confused and... _afraid_. Max nods, placing his hand over Charon’s and sniffling. “Yeah. I'm real."

 

“No…”

 

“Yes. Yes! I’m real!"

 

"Cannot be..."

 

Max grabs Charon's hand and brings it to his mouth, peppering it with kisses and then nuzzling it. "I promise. You're really sick, but I’m really here.”

 

Tears are welling up in Charon's eyes now. He chokes out, " _Max_..." and this time it's not a question. "It is _you_..."

 

Max smiles, tearfully. "It's me. I promise, I'm here. I won't leave you again, okay?"

 

He curls a finger into Max's hair, a particularly violent shiver going through him, and then he makes a face that might be his attempt to smile back.

 

"So...good...to see you...again."

 

Max chokes out something between a laugh and a sob, nodding, and kisses Charon’s hand again.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, it's good to see you, too."

 

**x**

 

It takes two days, but finally, _finally,_ Charon’s fever breaks; unfortunately for him, it comes the horrifyingly clear recollection of what’s happened, and he jolts awake with the heart-stopping fear of finding he’s still in the room, alone, or worse, with an Outcast as company.

 

He isn’t, though. He remembers Max, and he remembers he had never been able to touch his hallucinations. Max is real. Max is...where is Max? Where is _he?_ His vision is slightly blurred from sleep, and there’s an odd yet comfortable warmth against his back, but when he tries to move, to look around, it results in pain washing over him so suddenly he cries out. Without the haze of sickness clouding his mind, he can suddenly feel _everything,_ every not-quite-healed wound, and oh, God, his knees...

 

He realizes the warmth behind him _is_ Max as the boy squirms and then pushes himself up, raising his hand to lay over Charon’s forehead.

 

“Max…” Charon groans, and Max gasps, crawling out from under the covers and wrapping his arms too tightly around him.

 

“Oh, my God! You’re awake! You’re alive! I thought—I thought you were gonna die! You just—you just kept getting worse...but it’s better! You almost feel normal again! It—I—Charon, I gave you _so_ much Med-X, Jesus, I’m sorry…”

 

Well, that explains why he remembers nothing after their brief reunion before. He winces, gently pushing Max back, and breathes deeply when Max releases him. “Did you...give...stimpaks?”

 

Max looks a little offended, frowning, and huffs, “Of course. I made you better! I think I did, anyway. Why? What hurts?”

 

 _Everything._ "M-my knees…”

 

“Yeah. You need a real doctor. They look really bad…” He pulls the blankets aside, and Charon gasps, shoving Max’s hands away and covering himself again.

 

“Do not do that!”

 

Max startles. “...What? What’d I do?”

 

“I am...indecent,” Charon mumbles, his face growing feverishly hot again as he realizes Max has no doubt already seen everything while treating him, seen every wound he couldn't stop them from inflicting...and seen every scar beside them. “They...they took my clothes. They ruined my armor... _your_ armor, I am sorry…”

 

"Hey, don’t apologize. We can replace it. I’ll find you something. There’s gotta be something in here...it won’t take that long to get back.”

 

“No...no, I—I am not able to protect you, yet, I need—”

 

“I don't need you to protect me anymore,” Max says, quietly. “I’ve only got one stimpak left, and you have to get help. We gotta go back.”

 

“What...do you mean, you do not need me?” Those words were never, ever good. If an employer did not need him anymore, he was a liability. He usually found himself in someone else’s hands within just a few days of hearing that.

 

“Did you miss me tellin’ you how I took out all those fuckers by myself?”

 

Charon slowly shakes his head, lowering his gaze. He’s so tired...too tired to fight. “I...I do not remember. I am sorry.”

 

“Well, I did. Oh, and before that, I went to fuckin’ _war_. You think I can't handle myself after that?”

 

“I...I tried to get you out,” Charon mumbles, very quietly, and Max’s face softens.

 

“Charon…” he says, sighing as he drops down to sit. “No. No, that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. I’m so tired…I haven’t slept much. You had such a bad fever...and last night I ran out of Med-X, and I didn’t know what to do. I thought...I thought you were dying..."

 

“You wasted...all your medication on me?”

 

“Wasted? What’s wrong with you, huh? I didn’t waste anything!”

 

Charon coughs softly and groans, pressing his head back to the pillow. Max had still treated him even when he deserved it less than usual...why? Why does he have to be this way? “I...I allowed them to harm you..."

 

"No...no, you didn’t.”

 

“I tried, but I could not escape. They overpowered me. I have failed you.”

 

Max clenches his fists and shakes his head. There's no way Charon is going to do this, right? He can't possibly still think Max will hurt him, _right?_

 

“I swear to God, if you start that punishment bullshit—”

 

“I must. I _must._ I...I believe the contract would allow you to reprimand me, but...I am uncertain if...if I can take what you do in this state.”

 

“No. No!” Max shouts, grabbing Charon’s shoulders and gently shaking him. “Stop! Stop it! I’m not going to hurt you! I told you! I told you I’m never gonna—I fuckin’—I almost _lost_ you, and you still think—I’m—I—"

 

His voice cuts out, and he can’t fucking think, and Charon is still just _looking_ at him, so stupid and beautiful and alive _,_  and then he leans forward, cups the back of Charon’s head, and kisses him.

 

“I love you,” he mumbles, “I _love_ you, I—"

 

He stops, pulling back, and covers his mouth as he realizes what he’s just done. Charon is completely frozen, staring up at him in unmasked _terror_ , and Max stammers out, “Oh—oh, fuck, Charon, I—I’m sorry. Uh...I...um...that..."

 

"No..." Charon mumbles, still unblinkingly watching his employer, but it isn't Max he's seeing; instead, he sees the last person who'd kissed him. He sees _him,_ smirking and so disgustingly delighted to cause Charon anguish, calling him that godawful pet name and laughing when it makes him cringe.

 

"No, no, no,  _no._ " He isn't for that. He had _told them_ he isn't for that. He's for _protection,_ he is for  _safety,_ not—

 

 _'Tell me where it says I can't,'_ his fourth employer had ordered, and Charon couldn't, he just  _couldn't_ , because the ones who had made him their perfect soldier, who had written the very contract that controlled him, hadn't given a damn about his own protection. Sure there'd been a few words added so he wasn't  _killed_ , but he found that, when someone gained the complete control over another, there were many, many things they could do that were far worse. He'd been left completely helpless to stop her from damaging the very last untouched corner of him, from taking the only thing he still had left, and leaving him even emptier than before. He had  _desecrated_ her when the contract was passed on, broke every one of her bones before she died, but it wasn't enough.

 

The same order had come from three others before he'd completely turned, and still, Charon couldn't answer. When he was no longer human, no longer worthy of  _personal_ use, employers still forced him to hurt others for their entertainment, still traded him off for profit, and then...and then there was  _him,_ who Charon, nearly three decades later, has yet to stop having nightmares about, who he doesn't dare even  _think_ the name of, who he can't...he can't, he just  _can't..._

  

His stomach turns, and he heaves into the pan beside the bed. He can't breathe...as much as he has done to deserve suffering, as bad as he knows he is, he can't go through all that again. He can't. Not again, not ever again...

 

"Charon! Charon, stop!" 

 

Vaguely he realizes he's made himself bleed from scratching the back of his hand, but he doesn't know why it matters. He flinches as hands settle onto his own, still just waiting to hear an order for him to _stay still, shut up._ "No, _please_ , do not—"   
  
 

Max doesn't let go, too afraid Charon will continue to hurt himself if he does, and instead squeezes them tightly. "Hey. Hey! Look at me!"

 

Charon does, panting; his eyes are glazed over, tearful, and Max just doesn't know what to do. It had just been a stupid mistake...why is Charon scared? Why does he look like he's about to cry? Was Max really that...wrong? He was, wasn't he? What other reason could there be? Everyone in the vault had been right. No one else was like this! He'd fucking tried to  _taint_ Charon with...with whatever the hell he had...

 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It was an accident, okay? Do you hear me? Charon? I didn't mean to, I swear! You're scaring me...please just...calm down...please...I'm really sorry...just...breathe, please...you're really scaring me..."

 

Charon's vision slowly clears, just a bit, and he can at last see Max again.  _Max_. It's Max. Not any of the rest of them, not _him,_ just Max. Max, it's _Max,_ and—and Max won't hurt him, right? He can't. He'd promised. He'd promised, and Charon had missed him so goddamn much...had thought he was going to die before telling Max how much he meant to Charon, and...and Max...oh,  _Max..._

 

Charon chokes out his name, starting to catch his breath, and Max nods. 

 

"I'm here, and—and I'm sorry. You're okay. I won't ever do that again, okay? I promise I won't. I promise. It was wrong, it was so, so wrong, I didn't...I didn't mean to. I'd never hurt you...I love...having you around...I wouldn't...you're all I have...don't hate me, _please_..." 

 

The words themselves don't bring much comfort, because he's heard them all before, but it's how Max says them, his tone, his _genuine_ tone. He's sorry. He stopped...

 

Charon leans forward, resting his forehead against Max's shoulder. It's the most weakness he's ever willingly allowed himself show, but he's sick, he isn't thinking straight...he doesn't want to think at all. He just wants to stop hurting, just for a _second,_ and he needs this. Max asks, he  _asks,_ if it's okay to hug him, and when Charon nods, Max wraps his arms around him, so gentle, as if Charon is something fragile, something breakable that will shatter with the wrong touch.

 

Right now, he's not entirely sure he isn't.

 

He closes his eyes. This...this is okay. This he can let himself have, at least for a few minutes.

 

He can trust Max, can't he? He has to be able to. He  _does._ He already does and it's just too damn late to turn back now. 

 

As Charon's trembling fades, Max quietly says, "We should go. I don't care if I have to carry you, I want to go. It's bad here. I'm scared for you. I just want you to be okay, and you're not okay here. O...okay?"

 

Charon doesn't know if he can be okay _anywhere,_ but he gives a nod in response, his tears still drying on Max's shirt.

 

Max takes a deep breath, swallowing hard, and says, "Okay. Then...then let's go home."

 

**x**

 

_"Halle-fuckin'-lujah, Wasteland, the vault kid lives. It's been, what, almost two months now? Almost two months with nothin', and suddenly ol' Three-Dog here gets word of him headin' back home? Where ya been, kid? And what's up with your friend? I heard he ain't lookin' too good. Also heard you got a new suit of armor. Keep that shit shiny. Give the Enclave somethin' to be jealous about. Don't know what went down with those Outcasts, but I'm glad to see you both walkin'—well, one of ya, at least—outta there alive. I gotta say, I've taken a likin' to your stalwart ghoul manservant there. He's a real part of your adventure now, ain't he? Happy to see you're keepin' each other alive. I damn well better hear some more good news about you, soon. It's been too long. Until next time, kiddies, this has been Three-Dog; bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	21. Breathe In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hypothetical question here: if I happened to make a tumblr to post the playlist of (and maybe some art for) this story, like just for fun, would anyone...want that? Is that...weird? :O

They leave the Outpost as the sun is setting. In his armor, Max has the ability to haul both of their bags over his shoulders, their weapons, and then grab for Charon, who growls and still stubbornly attempts to pull away, to get to his feet, as if he hasn’t tried and failed a dozen times by now, as if he can actually move his legs. Max has seen him try, and he can’t. In fact, the only thing he _has_ been able to do is finally keep food down, as long as Max uncomfortably ordered him to shovel it into his mouth just a little slower. And the way his eyes had lit up as Max handed him a can, how his shoulders had been shaking as he struggled to pace himself...not to mention how grateful he had been at being given something as simple as _clothes_...it rekindled every bit of rage inside Max he'd been trying to push away. He still wants to kill the Outcasts all over again, wants to lock them in a room and strip their dignity and let them rot, or beat them to death instead of wasting bullets, but it's a waste of time to want what he can’t have. There's nothing he can do now but get Charon to safety as quickly as he can; the fever seems to be gone, but he clearly doesn't feel much better, and Max is afraid that if they wait any longer Charon will burn up again, and he will have nothing to stop it.

 

“ _Please_ don’t make this difficult,” Max says, and Charon grumbles under his breath. It's not an order, but he isn't sure what's more embarrassing: complaining, or... _this._ After a moment of thought he sighs and nods, begrudgingly allowing Max to tightly swathe him in blankets and lift him up with a grunt.

 

“ _Oh_ —” Charon gasps, grimacing, and it's only a further testament to how unwell he is, that he keeps letting out these small, choked sounds of pain, as if he's just too tired to try and stop them—or maybe just in too much pain. Max had never heard the sounds until this happened, and he _never_ wants to hear them again. He can't even imagine how much Charon went through...a month and a half of undeserved torture, and all because of him.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, adjusting Charon until he's not so tense anymore. “Better?”

 

Charon pants a little, cracking his eyes open, and then replies, “I am humiliated." 

 

Max snorts. “You'll live,” he says, and he hopes it's true. He _needs_ it to be true. He can't lose Charon again, not ever again.

 

As he exits into the hall, being extra careful to not hit Charon’s protruding legs on anything, he notices Charon's eyes go wide, gaze behind Max, caught by what's left of the Outcasts. Max had told him they were dead, but to see the blood-soaked hall for himself has to be a little startling, especially when the last time they had been together, Max had been useless.

 

He isn't useless anymore, though, is he?   
  
  
****

“Max—”

 

“I was gone a long time,” Max interrupts.

 

Charon looks up at him, brow furrowed as he hesitantly asks, “What...happened?”

 

Even if he wanted to talk about it, Max wouldn't know where to start. “Too much.”

 

“Oh,” Charon says again, much quieter, and it's the last thing said between them for miles.

 

At some point Charon unwittingly falls asleep, opening his eyes again with a start as Max lays him down on the floor of some beaten down shack he's come across, muttering curses.

 

“Wh-what is happening?” Charon asks, voice hoarse, looking around and trying to reorient himself, and Max puts his finger to his lips.

 

“Raiders. Just a couple. Stay here,” he says, dropping their bags to the ground and grabbing his weapon, disappearing out the door before Charon can respond.

 

Held still by the order, Charon strains to hear, locating his shotgun by their things. At least Max had been able to find it, unlike his combat knife. But he can get another one of those. His shotgun is irreplaceable. It's important. It's  _his,_ and he can't say that about anything else.

 

There’s the sudden sound of gunfire, and a lot of shouting, and the contract shifts his obedience, allows him to move to keep his employer safe. He jerks up and shoves the blankets off of him, trying to stand, but his legs immediately give out and drop him back to the floor with a cry. It still hurts just as much as it did when it happened...but shouldn't it be better? What if he can never walk again? No, he'll be completely _worthless_ , and he’ll have to put an end to that, he’ll have to put an end to _himself_ , and…

 

Well, it's really not a terrible thought, is it? Something of a relief, actually.

 

Another shot outside, definitely from that rifle Max has been favoring, and Charon shakes himself and crawls over to grab his shotgun. Taking a deep breath, he extends the leg that is slightly _less_ injured than the other, grabs onto desk beside the door, and pulls himself up.

 

He grits his teeth against the pain, even as it makes tears run down his face, and then staggers two steps towards the door before collapsing again, gasping. He's fought through worse injuries, hasn't he? What the hell is wrong with him? It just hurts so goddamn much; even the smallest movement feels as if he's being shot all over again. 

 

He drags himself back over to the desk, tries again, and is halfway back up before the door slams open; he expects it to be Max, but instead he gets a scantily clad, blood covered raider who startles at the sight of him, raising her hands and exclaiming, “Please, I don't wanna die, just—”

 

Charon collapses, wheezing, willing his vision to stop faltering, and the raider squints down at him. When it's clear he isn't a threat she comes closer, grabbing the shotgun from beside him and checking its ammo. He reaches up towards her, and she kicks his hand away. “I'm not gonna die,” she's muttering to herself, “I won't die. Not today.”

 

She looks around at the bags, at Charon’s bandaged legs, and then grins, crouching down beside him. “Are you his friend? Huh?” She grabs his chin, and he instinctively feels for the knife that is no longer at his waist; he's starting to make a habit of finding himself helpless, and it's reprehensible.

 

“Good. Then...he won't let me hurt you, right?” She smiles, and her hand closes around Charon's shirt collar; it almost seems like she plans to drag Charon up, as if her scrawny body could ever hold his weight, but the door opens again before she can, and this time it _is_ Max, and he has his rifle up and aimed at her just as she hides behind Charon, holding him up with one arm and pressing her knife to his neck with the other.

 

“Don't!” she shouts. She's terrified, her hands trembling, and Charon could probably get away unscathed even in this state, but then she shifts her weight, one of her knees digging into the back of Charon’s, and white-hot pain overtakes any other thought. “Don't move or I'll kill him!”

 

With the power armor helmet concealing his face, Charon can't see his employer's expression, but Max makes a noise that almost sounds like a _laugh_ , and he doesn't lower his weapon.

 

 _‘Don't negotiate for hostages,’_ Benji had told him as they remained hidden above the shack where two of their soldiers were being kept, while Max stared down the scope of a sniper at the one guarding them. _‘They'll end up killing them anyway. Take the shot and save them yourself.’_

 

One more stimpak. Whatever minor damage she could do as a mistake from the blast...he can reverse it.

 

He takes a breath and fires just slightly to the left of the raider. It hits the wall and ricochets off, raining debris over them and violently knocking them both forward. Max grabs for Charon, dragging him out of harm’s way and checking his neck to find only the slightest of nicks. He grins, then turns towards the raider sprawled dazed on the floor, shotgun inches from her. She doesn't get the chance to move towards it before Max lifts a foot and slams it down hard over the back of her neck.

 

Twice.

 

He then exits the armor and kneels beside Charon, cupping his cheeks. “Hey, hey. Charon?”

 

Slowly, Charon blinks his eyes open and stares up at his employer. Well.That is...that is not how he had expected that to go.

 

Max weakly smiles at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You're not hurt, are you? I had to. I knew it would end okay. I did."

 

“My head…”

 

Max gently presses a hand to the back of Charon’s head, wincing when Charon does. His fingers come back bloody, and he quickly takes the stimpak out of his pocket, sticking it into Charon’s neck; Charon lets out a strangled gasp at the startlingly intense pain that results, grabbing onto Max’s arm. 

 

“Oh, shit, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear! Please...are you mad? Don't be mad. I missed you so much. Don't be mad.”

 

Charon groans and shakes his head, leaning forward, and Max gently wraps his arms around him; Charon's rigid muscles loosen up at the touch, and he puts his face against Max's shoulder again. So warm...so dangerously comfortable...so _safe_. 

 

“You're okay. You're gonna be fine, okay? Everything's fine. We can go now. I'll keep you safe, okay? Because you're my—my friend. My...Charon. My Charon,” he whispers, fingers scrunching the leftover tufts of Charon’s hair, and Charon closes his eyes. It sounds so much like his employer views him as something valuable, something precious, even after every chance he's had to become what every other person he belonged to did. 

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Max holds him just a little tighter.

 

“Yeah. Let’s get the hell outta here, huh?”

 

**x**

 

By the time they reach Megaton, Charon somehow feels heavier, staying awfully quiet and limp in Max’s arms even as Max gently squeezes him, shakes him, kisses his forehead. It's warm under his lips again, but that's...probably just from the heat, right? He can't be sick again. He had just been able to reply to Max a few hours ago, hadn't he? Or had it been longer? No, he has to be getting better. He has to be  _okay._

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and despite it being the middle of the night, he shouts up at Stockholm as he approaches, demanding he open the gate.

 

“You’re gonna wake the whole fuckin’ town!” the man calls back down, shaking his head as if Max had woken him, too, and then quickly letting them in. Max couldn't care less if he wakes the whole fucking Capitol Wasteland, as long as he gets Charon help. He wastes no time in going down to the clinic, shoving the door open with his foot and nearly dropping Charon in his struggle to get them both inside the small doorway.

 

“Doc!”

 

“God, _what?_ ” comes Church’s half-asleep reply, and Max barges into the other room, setting Charon down on a bed before the man can stop him.

 

“Hey, hey, no!” Church says, pointing back towards the door. “Nope! Get him outta here! Now!”

 

“No,” Max growls, stepping out of the armor to sit beside Charon; with how tall he is, his entire upper body has to be upright in order for his legs to remain unbent, and Max has no choice but to support him. Then, he looks up at Church, and gestures at his table of equipment. “I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just fix him.”

 

“Fix him? What happened?”

 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Max snaps. “His legs are hurt. He’s sick. I don't know. Just...just....fix him. You gotta.”

 

“I don't _gotta_ to do anything.”

 

“I'll make you,” Max says, baring his teeth. He doesn't look particularly threatening, but his blood-covered armor does, and that gun at his side doesn't bode well for anyone on the receiving end of it, so Church clenches his teeth, shakes his head, and then puts on his glasses, getting as close as he dares. His expression softens just a bit as he takes in Charon's condition, and he quirks an eyebrow, looking at Max.

 

“What happened?” he asks again, sounding slightly more sincere. “Someone really did a number on him. Hell.” He pulls up a chair, rolling up the blood-soaked fabric of Charon's pants and grasping one of his knees in a too-tight grip. As he starts to pull off the gauze, Charon finally jerks awake, letting out a few muttered curses.

 

“Be careful!” Max hisses, rubbing Charon’s arm, and Church scoffs.

 

“Look, if you want me to help, I gotta figure out what I can do. How about we start this off by you telling me what happened?”

 

“He got hurt.”

 

“You don't fuckin’ say!” Church grabs for a flashlight and a knife, slicing the pant-legs off at Charon's thigh.

 

“Stop,” Charon mumbles, trying to curl into himself; with barely any effort at all, Church clamps his hands down on Charon’s ankles and holds him in place.

 

“He needs to stop moving, or he might stop walking.”

 

“ _What?”_

 

“I can't tell how bad it is! Just keep him fucking still!”

 

“Charon, you gotta relax,” Max says, and Charon finally opens his eyes. He doesn't remember them arriving here; in fact, he doesn't really remembering them travelling, either. He starts to speak, to ask what's going on, and then instead startles and swears as Church grabs his chin, shining the flashlight into his eyes. It's too bright—it reminds him of being on the floor of the outpost under those medical lights, under Bailey’s intense gaze, helpless and naked and...speaking. He'd been talking? No...replying. Bailey had been asking him questions, hadn’t he? Asking him how old he was, and then what he remembered about before the war, and then—

 

“Concussion,” Church says, and Charon loses the memory again, blinking hard to try and remove the dark spot from his eyes as Church pulls the light away and starts feeling at the still-sore spot on his head where McCoy had slammed a tire iron against it. He groans, and Max pushes the man’s hand away.  

 

“I told you to be careful!” Max says, holding Charon tighter, and a chuckle rumbles deep in Charon’s chest. Max still cares far too much, and it's still just as endearing. God, Charon had missed him so much...

 

Church rolls his eyes. “That ain't gonna hurt like checking his legs out will. But keep him still, alright? I have to look.”

 

“Please stay still,” Max murmurs, and Charon grunts in acknowledgment. He _tries_ , as hard as he can, but when Church prods at the worst of the two he can't stop himself from flinching away; it hurts far more than he has the capability of handling right now.

 

“ _Please,_ ” he chokes out, shaking, and Church finally backs off, though it's to write something on his clipboard rather than listening to the plea.

 

“Can't you give him something?” Max asks. “Med-X? Anything? And why—I gave him stimpaks! Like ten! Why isn't he better?”

 

“Well, I could get a better look if he'd stop squirming,” Church says, exasperated, “but from what I can tell, his kneecap is shattered. In that one, at least. The other…don't know. Might still have a fragment of the bullet in it or something. They're infected. He's runnin’ a fever. And I'm sure that nasty concussion ain't helpin’. Could have a bleed in there. Probably ain't bad, though, or he'd be a lot worse.”

 

“No, but—but I gave him stimpaks! And Med-X!”

 

“Oh, you did? I didn't hear you the first time. Kid, stimpaks heal flesh-wounds. A couple will heal bone, but only if it's been set. And anything in the way, like a bullet, it ain't gonna stitch up around it. As for Med-X, it's a painkiller, or a sedative if you use enough. Not an antibiotic. I have those. That's why there’re still doctors, and that's why you're here.”  

 

“Oh…” Max says. Nobody had ever been so gravely injured in the vault. “I...I didn't know.”

 

“Obviously,” Church replies, standing up and pulling a tray of tools closer. “I can fix ‘im up, but it ain't gonna be pretty. And right now, I ain't got the Med-X to waste puttin’ him out.”

 

“What? You can't just do fuckin’ surgery on him while he's awake!”

 

Church scoffs, looking back at them. “I got other patients to think about, kiddo. You know how much it takes to knock a ghoul out? Let alone this goddamn giant you got here? Had to put that bartender under a few years back and it took three and a half. Takes barely two to kill one of us. And this one’s twice as big. Not a chance.”

 

“You can't do that. That’s—that's inhuman!”

 

“Inhumane,” Church corrects. “ _He's_ inhuman. That's the problem.”

 

“No. You're wrong. And you have to have something you can use!”

 

Church hums and holds up a clenched fist, and Max scowls, cradling Charon closer and stroking his hair. “Don't you dare!”

 

With a chuckle, Church sighs and turns, opening up the cabinet above his desk and clinking jars of medicine around. “You’re right, you’re right. Think I might have some ether around here somewhere...but I can't promise he won't wake up and feel somethin’ before I can catch it.”

 

“That’s—”

 

“Max,” Charon mumbles, and Max huffs.

 

“Alright. Fine. Do it. But I'm staying here. And if you do anything bad to him, I'll—I'll—I don't know, but you won't like it!”

 

“Relax,” Church says, picking out a glass bottle from the back and holding a washcloth to the top of it. As he shakes it, he grabs a medical glove and tosses it to Max. “You'll be in charge of it, then.”

 

“I don't know—”

 

“You just have to listen to me. That's it. Easier for all of us. Put that on.”

 

Max sighs, reluctantly having to stop petting Charon's hair to pull the glove on, and then he takes the cloth as Church hands it to him, cringing away as the overwhelming chemical smell threatens to choke him.

 

“Don't get that too close to your face, now. Put it over his.”

 

“Why?"

 

"He needs to breathe it in."

 

Max makes a face. "That sounds...not safe."

 

“They used to use it a long time ago. It ain't perfect, but it works. Ain't you ever read a history book? Go on. Already gonna be here all night."

 

Biting his lip, Max presses the cloth over Charon’s face, panicking when Charon starts violently coughing. “Is that—”

 

“That happens. Keep it there or you're gonna be the one to blame when he's in pain.”

 

“Don't gotta be so rude,” Max grumbles, replacing the cloth and then tapping Charon's shoulder with his other hand. “Are you okay?”

 

Charon coughs a few more times and then grunts out a muffled affirmation, and Max nods. “I can—I can stop, okay? Just—if you want me to. This feels...bad.”

 

Church mutters something under his breath, and Max glares at him.

 

"What was that?”

 

The rifle falls from where it’s been leaning against his side, and all three of them start at the resulting noise; Church looks down at it, then back at Max, as if he thinks Max meant it as a threat, and then shrugs his shoulders.

 

“Didn't say a thing,” he says, grabbing the tray of tools and putting them on the bed next to Charon’s legs.

 

“Max,” Charon mumbles, sounding almost fearful, and Max quickly removes his hand.

 

“What? What's wrong?” he asks, ignoring Church’s impatient sigh, and Charon looks up at him. “You're gonna be okay. I'm not gonna leave. I promise. Okay?”

 

Charon licks his lips, wincing at the taste and coughing again. He'd wanted to tell Max something...but he can't really remember now. "I want...Max, I…you…”  

 

Max presses a soft kiss to Charon’s cheek, taking longer than he should; it might be the last time he can do it, since Charon will certainly push him away again once he's no longer sick. “Okay,” he says; he doesn't understand what's trying to be said, but Charon seems to take comfort in his answer, going quiet and remaining so even when Max replaces the cloth.

 

It takes a few long minutes, but finally Charon’s eyes flutter closed, and he relaxes in Max’s arms, his head lolling back onto Max’s shoulder. Church waits thirty seconds longer and then presses a finger down against Charon’s wound, nodding when there's no response. “Alright. Good. Take it off.”

 

Max does, keeping it held off to the side, and gently pushes his nose to Charon’s temple. “Sorry,” he murmurs, wincing, and doesn't look back up. He doesn't want to see. He just obeys Church’s orders to put the cloth back every couple of minutes when Charon makes a noise or twitches. He feels sick...really sick, for some reason, and when he does end up catching a glance of what Church is doing, at the pieces of Charon’s _bone_ he's putting back together, he gags, and Church scowls, kicking over the basin on the floor over just as Max leans over, retching.

 

“Told you not to get that shit too close to you,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s the fumes. Better get him a bucket, too.”  

 

“Gross,” Max coughs, wiping his mouth, and Church laughs.

 

“Welcome to the medical field, kid. It's fuckin’ disgusting.”

 

“My dad’s a doctor. I know. I used to watch him sometimes. But I didn't like blood. I...I still don't.”

 

“You sure got a nice coat of it on your armor, there.”

 

Max glances over at it. “That's...it's because I had to. I had to. They were gonna kill us.”

 

“They? Happen to be the same ones who did this to him?”  

 

“...Yeah. They...they did a lot of things.”

 

“Should I be checkin’ you, too?”

 

“No. No, I...I wasn't there.”

 

“Don't he follow you?”

 

 _Too loyally._ “I told you I don't wanna talk about it! Just shut up fix him!”

 

“Alright, and I hear ya, but this is gonna take a while. Might wanna relax a little.”

 

“I can't,” Max says. “I can't relax. I just can't. You don't understand. He has to be okay. I love hi—ha—having him with me.”

 

“Nice save. Woulda been a little more believable without that kiss earlier...”

 

Max's blood runs cold, and he stares at the doctor, but Church gives no other reaction. He doesn't insult either of them, or stop helping. Is it possible he simply doesn't care? No, that can't be right. Frightened, Max stammers out, “You don't know anything! And—and you—you shouldn't tell anyone. Because they're lies. And you're a liar.”

 

“That ain't the kind of subject I'd bring up over a beer. I'm just the doctor. I don't really give a shit if it don't involve me. Or caps. Which you're gonna owe a lot of, by the way. Now be quiet, I need to concentrate here.”

 

Max is so surprised that _he_ has been told to shut up that he does so out of the complete inability to find a response. How _rude._ He grabs Charon's hand and tugs it to the bed, out of view of the doctor, and twines their fingers together. Their hands just fit so perfectly together...

 

His heart skips. He hadn't been able to really feel it in his fury-fueled mistake, but he's sure their lips do, too.  

 

No, no, no. He is _disgusting._ He needs to stop trying to contaminate Charon. He doesn't even know how he ended up falling for a _ghoul—_ his _slave_ _—_ of all people, but it just can't happen. It can't. It never will. Charon very clearly hadn't liked it, so why is he still thinking like this? Why can't he just be happy with having a friend? Why couldn't he have just enjoyed the times they held hands and not let it get this far? Why does he have to be...whatever he is?

 

“Doc…?” he asks after a minute, and Church heaves another sigh.

 

“What now?”

 

Max bites the inside of his cheek. What is he going to ask for, exactly? A confirmation of how wrong he is? A cure? They'd tried to cure him in the vault, more than once, and he hadn't liked that at all.

 

“Nothing, never mind,” he finally says, shaking his head.

 

He knows damn well it's safer not to say anything at all.

 

**x**

 

“Alright, kid, come on. Time to pay up.”

 

Max blinks, raising his head, and squints up at Church as reality fades back in. God, he feels so...so... _good._ Like he's...floating...had he been flying? He can't remember the last time he felt this peaceful…

 

Suddenly remembering where he is, panic settles back into his body. Had he just...fallen asleep? He jolts, checking to be sure Charon is alright, and finds him still asleep beside him, with both knees and his head wrapped in clean gauze. “...What? What...just happened?

 

Church chuckles, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Your face was a little too close to his the last time you put the cloth there. Got a couple good whiffs of it yourself. I was just about done, anyway. He's all good, now. Fever’s already lower. You can take him. I gave him some antibiotics, and I'll give you another dose to give him tonight.”

 

Still dazed, it takes Max a second to register the words. “Uh...right. Yeah. Okay. My head is, um…”

 

"Good shit, huh? Come on, I’d like to actually get to sleep. Caps, please. Fifty for the medicine, one hundred for the surgery. And ten more because he's filthy, and I'm gonna have to wash the sheets twice, and it's annoying.”

 

Max nods. He'd taken plenty from the outpost, and he doubts he’ll have anymore trouble affording things. He carefully rests Charon back against the headboard and gets up, counting out the caps and then handing them off to the doctor, who nods his appreciation and goes off into the other room.

 

Zipping up his bag, Max's eyes catch on the bottle of ether, still set out on the counter. His head...still so pleasantly fuzzy. Full of a beautiful warmth, for once, and not gunfire, or Alaska, or death.

 

Without really thinking it through, he opens his bag again, grabs for an empty water bottle, and then holds his breath, uncapping the glass container and pouring some of it into the bottle. His heartbeat pounds as he twists both lids back on, glancing at the door to make sure the doctor hasn't returned yet, and then he shoves his bottle back in his bag and places the other right back where it had been. He turns, biting his lip, and then gets back into his armor, shouldering their things and then picking Charon up; he's still dead-weight, but his face is no longer scrunched up in pain, and he hasn't already bled through the gauze like last time. All good signs. Maybe this time he really will get better...no thanks to Max.

 

Church stops them at the door. Dread wells up in Max, and he shifts uncomfortably, waiting to be admonished for what he's done; instead, Chuch just pushes the second dose of antibiotic into his bag, pats his shoulder, and gestures for them to leave. “He shouldn't get worse, but if he does, bring him back. And when he's not puking anymore, get him to eat. Whatever they did, it sure as hell didn't involve feeding him. He's malnourished. And for me to notice that on a  _corpse_ should really tell you how bad it is."

 

“Yeah. Thank you,” Max breathes, stepping out the door. A cool breeze greets him, and he takes a deep breath, humming softly. He still feels pretty good. Charon is alive. He's almost home.

 

There's a quiet yelp from up the side of the crater by the gate, and then _Gob_ of all people scrambles down towards them, kicking up dust and sand and nearly tripping twice in his haste.

 

“What are you—?” Max starts, and Gob latches onto his side in an awkward attempt to hug him despite the armor.

 

“I heard talk earlier, I didn't—I didn't believe it, I had to check, but it's you! You're back! I thought you were dead! Charon—is he okay? What's wrong with him? What happened?”

 

“A lot. He's okay. I have to get him home.”  

 

Gob looks absolutely heartbroken as he pulls away. “O-oh. Yeah. Yeah! Of course! I'm…I'm sorry, I…I thought you were both…”

 

“Can you come with me?” Max asks, and Gob's eyes light up as he nods.

 

“Yes! I mean, y-yeah, yes, I can.” He trails behind Max like a puppy would, opening the door for him and then closing it behind them as Max gently lays Charon down on the couch and steps out of the armor.

 

“Masters, you've returned!” Wadsworth greets them, about as delighted as a robot can sound, and Max pats him as he passes to get a bucket and some water, and two beers. His head has already cleared back up, and he needs _something_ to help with that. When he returns, Gob has knelt beside Charon and taken his hand, and Max feels a pang of unwelcome jealousy that he tries to ignore.

 

“What happened to you?” Gob whispers, his eyes wide with worry.

 

Max sighs and hands him one of the beers, popping open the second and taking a long drink. “Outcasts,” he finally says, sitting in the chair across from them; _he_ should be the one holding Charon’s hand, but whatever. “We— _I_ —tried to help them, and....and this is what we got for it.”

 

Gob sets the beer down on the table without taking a drink, then turns all of his attention back to Charon. “They did this to him? Fuckin’ bastards. I'll kill them.”

 

With a giggle, Max leans back. "Too late.”

 

Gob stares at him, and then glances over at the armor. “...You killed them? How many?”

 

“All of them. Ten. Fifteen. I wasn't counting. And yes, _I_ did. And I did it alone. Why? Did you think I couldn't?”

 

“N-no! No, th-that's not what I meant! I just...you... _you..._ I don't know, but I didn't mean it like that.”

 

“Sorry,” Max murmurs, and then looks up at the ceiling. “I went to war.”  

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

Before Max can respond, Charon groans and twists onto his side, grimacing. Gob gasps out his friend's name and brings Charon's hand to his chest, and Max's knuckles turn white around his bottle.

 

Charon squints up at him, blinking. “Gob,” he replies, and then leans over and throws up. Gob yelps and pulls away, and Max swears, approaching to push the bucket closer and glaring at Gob like it's _his_ fault.

 

“Charon, the _bucket,_ ” he says, and Charon yanks the bucket up, sticking his face into it as he starts retching again.

 

“What's wrong with him?”

 

“Nothing,” Max says, calling Wadsworth over to clean the mess. “He's just sick from the aesthetic.”

 

“The what? Anesthetic? For surgery? Christ!”

 

“He's okay now! He has to be. He is.”

 

“But you said—what do you mean you went to war? I don't understand—”

 

“There was a simulation,” Max starts, and Gob’s breath whooshes out of him in unmistakable relief.

 

“Oh, thank God,” he says, “I thought you meant you _really_ went to war!”  

 

Max's mouth twists into a scowl. He seethes for a moment, watching as Gob's gaze drifts back to Charon, and then spits, “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

“W-what?” Gob stammers, standing up and taking a step back. He looks scared, and Max doesn't like being the cause of that, but what right does he have to say something like that?

 

“Is that not good enough for you? Because it wasn't real? Because it sure felt real to me! You know, you never even asked if _I_ was okay. Just him!”

 

“I...I...a-are you—”

 

“No!” Max shouts, and Gob flinches, shrinking.

 

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean...I'm sorry.”

 

Max looks down at the ground and shakes his head. “I think you should go.”

 

“M-Max, I'm sorry! I just—”

 

“You need to go.”  

 

Tearfully, Gob nods, keeping his head down as he obeys. When they're alone again, Max comes over to take Charon's hand, because it's  _his_ job. Charon finally raises his head, dazed, and looks around. “...Gob? Where…?”

 

Max winces. “I just...he had to go,” he says, trying not to sound as guilty as he suddenly feels, and Charon blinks a few times before squeezing Max’s hand back.

 

“I...I wish...to sleep now,” he replies, words slurring together, and Max moves the bucket back to the floor.

 

“Yeah. Good. Sleep.”

 

Charon closes his eyes, slowly rolling onto his other side and tucking his arm under his head while Max pulls a blanket from his bag, laying it over Charon and gently petting his hair.

 

After a few minutes, after he's sure Charon is asleep, he trudges up the stairs with his bag and slumps into bed, curling up under the covers with a content sigh. He'd thought he would never get back here. Four long, long months…

 

But...it really was only a month and a half of sleeping, wasn't it? Because it was _just_ a simulation, and he didn't _really_ go anywhere. It had all been in his head, right? It hadn't been real.

 

It had felt real, though. As much as he regrets being so rude, Gob had had no right to say that. He may not have the physical scars to match the mental, but he's...changed. And it's more than just his newfoundproficiency with weapons; it's something more, something deeper, and he isn't sure he understands it yet. Focusing only on Charon, he hasn't allowed himself to have time to think. He doesn't _want_ to think. He's afraid to. It makes everything hurt. 

 

He bites his lip, grabs for his bag, and pulls out the bottle, swishing the liquid around at the bottom. The worst it can do is maybe make him a little sick again, right? In which case, he would dump it out and go about his life with all the anxiety he doesn't want to feel anymore, all the anxiety that had momentarily gone away before. That's all he wants...he just wants to feel okay enough to get some sleep, to not have to keep prying his eyes open to be sure he's not back in Anchorage.

 

Well, that, and maybe to feel as good as he had when he'd come to in the clinic. 

 

That alone is enough to convince him, and he uncaps the bottle, pulls it closer, and breathes in.

 

**x**

 

" _Hey-a, kiddies. Three-Dog here again with one of your daily doses of reality. Now, not to worry him, but I think Mr. 101's got himself a...new problem. I'd hope he was listenin', but I'm damn sure he already knows. I told ya'll he and his ghoul were seen finally leavin' that outpost, and well, it seems they've left a little mess behind them. I'd be lyin' if I said the Brotherhood cares much, but the Outcasts are everywhere. They ain't a good enemy to have. I know they can be...difficult, but hell. Did they really do somethin' to warrant all that? Don't wanna lose faith in you to do the right thing, after everythin', but after somethin' like that...watch yourself, 101. The world's got enough killin' already, don't ya think? I'd've thought you'd be the one to find one of those peaceful solutions for everyone. Anyway...this has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied it wasn't hypothetical lol help I'm a mess I've got 40+ songs to put on there...I've never been this fucked up over something I've written before lmao whoops. It's [andneverlookback.tumblr.com.](https://andneverlookback.tumblr.com/) It won't have a TON on it until next chapter but I was really excited so...you know...if you ever wanna come cry over Charon with me...


	22. Crash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter, I got pretty sick for a few days. But I am back and I have brought the gift of 7,000+ words, so, hopefully you enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks, I love you all so much!

As much as he needs a long, restful sleep, Charon doesn't find it. He tosses and turns, dreaming and waking and then dreaming again. They blur together, and he can't remember much of them, but he knows most, if not all, were of the outpost, of what he _wishes_ had only been a fevered dream.

 

He hardly even wants to admit it to himself, but he _fears_ going to sleep, knowing he's just going to be put right back in that hell. He doesn't want that; he isn't quite sure he can _handle_ that. Surviving it once was bad enough, and he's still not sure all of him made it through. He feels...different; shaky, almost weak. But that has to be because he hasn't recovered yet, right? Once his legs are better, once his head stops hurting so badly, he’ll feel better. He's been through worse.

 

He swallows hard, blinking back the sudden threat of tears, as he realizes no, he _hasn’t,_ not since his years of training, and he's never included that in his standards. He's had monsters for employers, so many wretched people that rejoiced in his suffering, but none of them had ever physically tortured him every waking minute. He doesn't even think _they_ were that bad; they'd had him for years, maybe his entire pre-war life, with all the time in the world to make him suffer. Those Outcasts had prided themselves on doing it in as little time as possible. They'd been so pleased with themselves...especially Sibley.

 

 _‘I can't wait for the kid to see you now,’_ is what Charon last remembers the man saying, sometime after he'd been shot, somewhere in that _two weeks_ he'd suffered through the pain, slowly surrendering to his fever and certain he was going to die. He hadn't even tried to hold back the tears anymore, not after that.

 

_‘I‘m gonna stop givin’ you any water at all if you're just gonna fuckin’ cry it out. Fuckin’ ungrateful, is what you are.’_

 

He grimaces, tossing his arm over his eyes. Pathetic. He's _pathetic._ He'd allowed himself to break all over again. He hadn't tried hard enough. He had allowed them to win, and it doesn't matter that they're dead; they still took everything away, and he might not get it all back.

 

And worse than any of it, there’s something... _something_ he isn't remembering, and it's scratching at the back of his brain with every breath he takes. It's Bailey—something he did, something he said, even; there's _something,_ but Charon can't focus enough to pull up the memory. He needs to remember, he _needs_ to, because for some reason it’s important, but he's fucking useless, and he _can't._

 

He blinks hard, trying to push the thoughts away before it makes his head ache more. He raises his arm and turns it slowly, using the dim light coming in from the window to inspect the lacerations around his wrist, where he'd ripped skin away in his struggles to get free and _still_ failed. He moves his other arm up, hissing in pain as he then bends the healing joints of his hand. It has more mobility now than when Sibley first broke it, but he still cannot completely extend his fingers, or curl them all the way to his palm. It likely didn't heal correctly, and he can only hope it doesn't affect his ability to shoot.

 

And...if it does? He doesn't even want to think about it. He'd rather focus on anything else, even the pain, which might be getting worse every second he's awake. The numbness brought on by the drug and the fever has already faded; his entire body throbs, almost unbearably, and he desperately needs to relieve himself, but there isn't a chance he’ll make it up the stairs, if he can even summon the strength to stand in the first place. And even _worse,_  all he can smell is that goddamn anesthetic Church had used on him; the odor is stuck in his hair, his shirt, and he can't get away from it. It smells like someone dumped a bottle of lighter fluid onto him, and it's nauseating, but that ridiculous robot had taken away the bucket beside him and given nothing as a replacement, so he forces it away.

 

He groans, propping himself up, and then carefully attempts to move one of his legs; unsurprisingly, it doesn't cooperate. He thinks about calling out for his employer, but that's lower than he wants to go. Max had already carried him all the way here; he really, really can't stand the idea of Max having to help him to the goddamn toilet.

 

He waits for a while, expecting Max to come down at some point and see he's in pain, to maybe get Med-X or _something_ so he can function, but eventually he just can't stay put any longer, and Max has yet to come out of his room. It's morning, maybe even afternoon by now, and Max sleeps a _lot,_ but Charon hasn't heard any movement from upstairs at all.

 

It's...concerning, actually. He frowns, managing to sit up again, and calls out, "Max?"

 

Nothing. Unease settles into him, and, grimacing, he uses his hands to pick up his legs, placing them on the floor. God, that _hurts,_ and he hasn't even tried to stand yet. He can do this, though. He can, because apparently there’s something's wrong with Max, and there are other _very urgent_ _matters_ he has to deal with, _right now,_ and so he doesn't really have a choice.

 

He takes a breath, bracing himself on the table before him and struggling up. His legs wobble and give out as if he's never walked before, and he hardly manages to catch himself against the chair, a mere five feet from where he started. Swearing, he has to sit again, already heaving for breath, and this time he _shouts_ Max’s name, still met with silence. Fine, so his legs won't support him, but...his arms will, right? He's got a lifetime’s worth of push-ups behind him, especially in the last few decades, and they certainly have to have done _something_ for him.

 

He lowers himself, wincing, and then drags himself a few feet before having to pause again, uncontrollably chuckling. He must look _ridiculous_ ; a soldier of death unable to even walk, forced to _crawl_. How pathetic, and disgusting, and humiliating. Anyone intelligent would have already sold him to someone else, disposed of the extra weight, the liability, but he supposes he really doesn't have to worry about that with Max, now does he?

 

He manages to get up three stairs before tears start running down his face, and then six more before he reaches the top, collapsing and uncertain if he can make it even the small distance more to Max’s room. His vision is flickering, and the pain is _definitely_ worse now, but...he's made it this far.

 

“Max!” he calls again, crawling over to the door and shoving it open. He starts to gag, pulling his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose; that _smell,_ fuck, it’s overpowering. Why is it so strong up here?

 

Max is curled up in his blankets, and there's an empty water bottle on the floor beside his bed. Charon frowns, coming closer, and reaches up to grab Max’s hand, slung over the side of the mattress.

 

With a little hum Charon almost doesn't hear, Max turns over and lets out a content sigh, and Charon relaxes a little, rubbing his eyes. So, asleep; not dead. That’s good. Apparently passed out drunk, but hell, an employer isn't _really_ an employer unless they drink themselves half to death once in a while, right?

 

He shakes his head, annoyed. Well, he'd needed to come upstairs anyway. God, that reminds him...

 

As much pain as it causes, he manages to drag himself out and to the bathroom, taking a deep breath once he can and then letting it out slowly in a long, relieved sigh as he sits. Already he feels better...he just wishes the rest of his pain was as easy to get rid of.

 

He rubs under the remains of his nose and huffs, trying to get rid of the smell that's apparently _stuck_ in there. He's grateful to be away from it, at least and…

 

He frowns. Wait...why would it be so strong in Max’s room, anyway? That doesn't make any sense. Max had helped, had been near him, but he'd never actually touched the stuff, had he? Why did it smell like he dumped an entire jar if it out on the floor of the room?

 

He thinks immediately of the empty bottle he'd noticed, but—no. No, that can't be what's wrong. Max isn't that stupid.

 

Except he _is,_ and when Charon returns to the bedroom, he grabs the bottle, brings it a little closer, and sniffs it just once before flinging it away, retching.

 

Max stirs slightly at the noise, mumbling, and Charon recovers, growling under his breath.

 

Max isn't drunk. He's _high_.

 

Furious, he takes a fistful of Max’s blanket and rips it off of him with all the strength he can muster, and Max yelps, flails, and then tumbles right off the side of the bed.

 

“Jesus!” he cries, nearly kicking Charon in the face, and Charon grabs his foot, shoving it away.

 

“What the…? Charon?”

 

“You stupid boy,” Charon hisses, and Max finally steadies himself, rubbing his eyes.

 

“What? Why’re you...bein’ mean? I didn't do anything!”

 

“You are a _thief._ You stole drugs, and you used them to get high!”

 

Max freezes. How the hell could Charon know that? No. He has to be bluffing, right? He rolls his eyes and tries to play it cool, all while trying to enjoy the last bit of pleasantness he feels fading away. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

Charon lets out an offended scoff. “And a liar! The room reeks of it! You would not wake when I called! I thought something was very wrong! I thought you were hurt!”

 

Max looks Charon over, very slowly, and blinks a few times; it takes too long for it to register than Charon had just dragged himself upstairs because of him. He gasps, reaching out, and Charon jerks away.

 

"Oh my God—did you—?"

 

“I thought you were injured,” he repeats, and Max whimpers, bringing his hands to his own cheeks.

 

“Oh, no. No, no, Charon, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Are you okay?”

 

Charon can't lie. He would rather not an answer at all, but he's forced to gently shake his head.

 

“God, I'm sorry!” Max says, inching closer, slowly, like he's trying to calm Charon enough to be allowed to touch him, but Charon doesn't _want_ that. He's _pissed_ , and he lets out a low growl of warning, and Max rightfully backs away.

 

“No, please don't be mad, I'm sorry!”

 

“I am mad!” Charon snaps, and Max whimpers.

 

“I...I didn't mean to! I just...I can explain!"

 

Charon leans against the side of the bed, holding back a groan, and gestures weakly. Instead of continuing, though, Max mutters to himself, distracted, and goes over to grab the empty bottle where it'd landed by the doorway. He scowls, tipping it, and then throws it back at Charon. The plastic bounces off his head, and he lets out a harsh breath of annoyance, crossing his arms.

 

“You dumped it out!" Max says. "Why would you do that?”

 

“No, I did _not_. You must have spilled it after you passed out. But if any had been left," he adds, "I would have!”

 

Max clenches his fists, stomping his foot on the floor, and then kicks the door. “You're an asshole!”

 

“Ah. And you apologized just a moment ago. Were you only sorry as long as you could do it again?”

 

Max breathes in sharply, startled, and then kicks the door again, even harder. “No! You don't understand! You just don't! God, _ow!_ ” He leans over, clutching at his toes, and then slides down the wall to sit, burying his face in his hands and starting to cry.

 

“I'm so fuckin’ angry!” he chokes out. “All the time! And I'm sad! I'm really sad...I'm so fuckin’ sad...I missed you...I miss my dad...I miss Jonas…I wanna die, Charon. I wish I'd died. That helped, and now it's gone."

 

Charon hadn't quite expected _that._ He frowns, pulls himself forward a bit, and asks, “Why?”

 

“Fuckin'—because! I don't wanna feel like this anymore! My dad doesn't love me, and nobody even _liked_ me in the vault, and I feel awful! I feel bad! Bad, bad, bad! Which is what I deserve! But I don't like it! I felt so good and I spilled the rest of it because I'm a no-good piece of _shit!"_  He pulls back his sleeve, raking his nails down his wrist and leaving dark red scratches, and Charon quickly comes closer, grabbing his hand.

 

“Do not—” he starts, and then cuts off, staring.

 

Those aren't scratches on his wrists; they're scars. Three of them, right down the middle, one winding up to somewhere under the rest of his sleeve.

 

Max freezes, his breath catching, and then he yanks away, curling into himself and pulling both sleeves down over his hands. “Don't do that!”

 

“Max—”

 

“No! I hate you! No. I'm sorry, but I can't have you anymore. I don't want to. I'm gonna give you to someone else. I have to. I want to be alone. I wanna be alone now. Please go.”

 

It's not a direct command, so Charon stays put. Max shakes his head, wiping his eyes, and finally looks up at him.

 

“Don't go," he whispers, "please. Please, I don't...I don't think I really wanna be alone." He squeezes his eyes shut, smacking his head back against the wall. "I don't know why I'm like this! I don't wanna yell at you. I don't wanna be mean. It just...I was mean to my dad sometimes, too. And Jonas. I'm sorry. I don't know why! People were always so mean to me, and I think I'm one of them now. I don't wanna be, but I'm so fuckin’ _angry,_ Charon. I'm so angry. All the fuckin' time. It's a million times worse now. I'm burning up inside and it's gonna kill me and I don't even care. I don't, and no one else does either. I just want it to stop. I want everything to stop. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I don't ever wanna feel anything ever again.”

 

Charon watches Max for a long few moments, watches him sniffle and hug himself tighter. It’s so difficult to stay mad at the boy, especially when he looks like this, so small and sad and vulnerable. He's opened himself up, confided in Charon like no other has, and Charon wants to bring him into his arms, to hold him together, to—to _kiss_ him, to kiss him until he stops crying, until he feels better, until _Charon_ feels better. But he can't do that. He can't. Instead he sighs, positioning himself to lean against the wall beside Max, and says, “I am angry, as well.”

 

“And?” Max snorts, and it's not exactly the response Charon had been thinking he would receive.

 

“I...wish not to delve into all feelings I may or may not have.”

 

Max shakes his head, then leans it gently against Charon’s shoulder. Charon muses about how quickly he used to push the boy away; now he finds the contact comfortable, familiar, and he welcomes it. Surely that means he's grown soft, but...he probably should have foreseen it the first time he'd looked at Max and felt admiration instead of contempt.

 

“I thought you were gonna give me advice or something. You're a million years old and you don't have anything for me?”

 

“My loyalty.”

 

Max heaves out a breath, and it ripples Charon's shirt over his chest, almost making him shiver. “You don't _want_ to give me that. You probably want me dead, too.”

 

There are a _lot_ of things Charon wants of Max, but death is not one of them. “No,” he says. “I do not.”

 

“Why? I _own_ you. I've hurt you so much. I abandoned you!”

 

“You own my contract, as many have before. I would rather you than any of the rest. And...you came back,” Charon murmurs, and Max sniffles, nuzzling his shoulder.

 

“I don't think I did. Not all of me. I feel…I feel bad. I always feel bad, but I feel so much fuckin' worse now."

 

Charon nods in agreement, and Max curls his hand into Charon’s.

 

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to get hurt.”

 

“What happened was not your fault. You could not have known. You meant to help. That is commendable, beyond the consequences. And I am not the only one injured.” He squeezes Max’s hand, very gently; it's so small and soft in his own, a perfect fit, and he has the despicable urge to bring it up to his lips and kiss it.

 

“I'm not hurt, though," Max mutters, and Charon frowns.

 

“If you resorted to...what you have done...then there is something wrong.”

 

Max shifts uncomfortably, lifting his other hand to his mouth and gently biting his sleeve. “I...do bad things when I'm sad.”

 

Charon, for the first time, realizes that Max has never worn any shirt that did not cover down to his wrists, and he has to wonder if it's been to cover those suspiciously placed marks. Had he done that to himself? It’s none of Charon's business, of course, and definitely not something he should mention right now, and so he doesn't. He just reaches to take Max’s other hand, too, and cradles them gently between his own.

 

“If you wish to speak of it,” he says, “I wish to listen.”

 

Max tilts his head up, and their faces are so close Charon can feel the boy’s sudden, harsh exhale against his cheek. Max’s eyes drift down to his lips, and Charon nearly groans. It would be too easy to just lean forward, to give in to what he's been resisting for too long, but he doesn't. Max, continuing to be as remarkable an employer as ever, has the power to take _from_ him, but he doesn't. They both stay where they are, and then finally Max looks away.

 

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” he says, chuckling softly, humorlessly. “It was all in my head, wasn't it? In real life, I didn't go anywhere. I was just...sleeping, or whatever. So I shouldn't be so upset. I don't even have the right."

 

"You do," Charon says, "just as much as anyone."

 

"No. You...wouldn't even wanna hear about it."

 

“I do. Tell me.”

 

“I don't know…”

 

“When you are ready,” Charon adds, and Max sniffles, nuzzling him again. It takes a few minutes, but finally Max nods, takes a deep breath, and starts to speak.

 

"It was really cold there. I don't think I'll ever be hot again. Have you ever seen snow? It’s cold. There was a lot of it. But I had a friend. His name was Benji, and...I think you woulda liked him..."

 

**x**

 

For several weeks, Charon doesn't do much else besides rest. It’s as if two centuries of deprivation have suddenly caught up to him, and he's completely unable to shake the exhaustion. Max frets over him despite his own fatigue, making sure he eats and drinks and is well taken care of. He gains some of the weight he lost back, stops looking so frail and sick, and eventually has enough strength that Max doesn’t need to help him up and down the stairs anymore.

 

He's as angry as he is tired, for what they’d put Max through, for what they’d put _him_ through. It’s pointless, but he’s got a lifetime of grudges behind him, and he doesn’t plan on stopping now. After their long, long conversation, in which Max had depicted only a few of the horrific events he'd been subjected to, he'd helplessly cried himself to sleep against Charon, and then refused to leave his bed for three days.

 

"I'm not dead," he'd said when Charon eventually approached to nudge his foot, just to be sure. "Just pretending to be."

 

And while he's a little better now, roaming the house during the day and speaking more, finding different places to nap besides his bed, he definitely isn't the person he was before they left. He doesn't really smile anymore, and he definitely doesn't make any jokes, and Charon just doesn't know how to help him. He's never been good with words, forced to hold his opinions in and more than used to it by now, and he doesn't think he has the capability to comfort anybody if he can't even do it for himself, but he wishes he could do something.

 

He hates that he can't help, but he hates even more how all he can think about is being next to Max again, and how desperate he is to have Max curled against him like back at the outpost. He wonders if that, of all things, could make Max feel better. Max always wants Charon's contact, and now that Charon wants _Max's,_ more than he's ever wanted anything...he could at least try, right? After all, it's his job to keep his employer happy to the best of his ability, and if it just so happens to make _him_ feel better, too...

 

He still resists for a while, but after a night of shivering and particularly fitful dozing on the couch he finally gives in and trudges upstairs, half-asleep as dull morning light comes through the cracks in the ceiling.

 

Max sits up as soon as the door opens, squinting. “What's wrong? Are you okay?”

 

“I...if I have your permission,” Charon murmurs, leaning against the doorway with his head lowered, “I wish...to lay with you. Close to you. I am...very cold.”

 

Max blinks a few times, letting those words settle in. “You...wanna cuddle?” he giggles, and Charon cringes back, shaking his head. What a mistake this had been...

 

“No,” he says quickly, turning to leave. “Never mind. I apologize for disturbing you.”

 

“Wait, I was just—I’m sorry. That was dumb of me to say. Come on. Please? I’m...I’m cold, too, and you...you can just lay there, on the other side, see? It’s big enough, even for you, and I have a lot of blankets...please?"

 

Charon takes a breath, so damn tired, and at last nods, closing the door and then coming forward.

 

The last time he slept in a bed was Rivet City. Before that, he can't even recall. The mattress depresses under his weight, absurdly soft, and he lets out a quiet, content groan as he makes himself comfortable.

 

“There, see?” Max says, giving him two blankets of his own and then settling down on the opposite edge. “Is this okay?”

 

Charon hesitates, then shakes his head. He looks at Max, and then at the space between them, and Max bites his lip. Surely he's not reading Charon right...he can't want him to get closer, can he?

 

“Are we too close?” he asks, and again Charon shakes his head.

 

“What...do you want, Charon?”

 

After another long pause, Charon replies, “I think it would...be alright if...we were a bit closer.”

 

Max feels his cheeks burning, and he smiles shyly. “Yeah?” He scoots over, until their shoulders are touching, and tries not to let his voice jump too high as he says, “Better?”

 

Charon looks at him, hardly seeming to breathe, and doesn't say a word, but his eyes are almost desperate. Max slowly closes the rest of the distance, curling against his side, and finally Charon relaxes, his eyelids drooping.

 

“Is this okay?” Max asks again, and Charon nods.

 

“Yes,” he says, and it is; it's far more than okay. Max nuzzles against his shoulder, and his warmth soothes Charon into a better sleep than he's had in ages.

 

The couch ends up staying unused every night after.

 

It takes a while before Charon is healed enough he can stand for long periods of time, his legs weak, knees still aching and swollen. When he can finally stay upright, and stay awake for more than a few hours, no longer in a daze, Max tells him how much Gob has been wanting to see him, and Charon doesn't even consider protesting the suggestion to go talk. He’d missed Gob just as much as he had Max, and he meets him outside the saloon hours before dawn.

 

Gob wraps his arms around him and weeps into his shoulder, managing to speak only between choked sobs. “I thought you were both dead. I thought I was alone. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

 

Charon frowns, hands settling on Gob’s shaking back. “Why...are _you_ sorry?”

 

“I doubted you. You! After everything...I thought they'd...but they hurt you..."

 

"I am alright..."

 

"You can barely walk! Damn, sit, please." He pulls away, sitting down, and gestures for Charon to do the same. With a wince Charon does, and Gob latches onto him again. Charon's stomach tightens, and he clears his throat, and Gob looks up at him, unfazed.

 

"I really missed you," he says, quietly, with the most winsome smile Charon has ever seen. "I thought I'd never see you again. _Again._ You have to stop doing that. I’m getting too old to worry so much. Just stay here."

 

Charon cups a hand to Gob's face, running his thumb lightly over a dark bruise, and Gob flinches, faltering for a moment.

 

"Is here any better?" Charon asks, and Gob lets out a little laugh; Charon doesn't know what he wouldn't do to hear one that isn't forced.

 

"With you here, it could be. Uh, you and the kid, I mean. Can't forget about him. Not that I ever did, I mean.”

 

"He is something," Charon says, too fondly. Gob looks up, studying him, and then somehow changes. He pulls back just a little, almost closes off completely, and then smiles again, much sadder.

 

"He likes you, doesn’t he?" he says, and Charon nearly chokes at the abruptness of it.

 

"What he feels for me does not matter,” Charon replies, shifting uncomfortably. "He is my employer, and I will protect him, but that is all."

 

Gob tilts his head, squeezing Charon's hand. He leans his head on Charon's shoulder and asks, "...Oh?"

 

They are...very close, and Charon's breaths have picked up speed. He looks down at Gob, trying to steady himself, but his heart is pounding and he just can’t _relax._ "Yes," he finally says. "It is...too complicated, for that. I do not think that I want that."

 

"The contract would...make it weird, wouldn't it?"

 

Why does he sound so relieved? Why is he so damn _close?_ No, Charon doesn't have the ability to deal with this kind of thing, with how this kind of thing is making him _feel._ He tugs at his collar, swallowing hard, and says, "Yes. And I...I do not know...I am feeling very..."

 

Gob pulls back again, worried. "Are you okay?" he asks, reaching up to touch Charon's cheek, and that's it, Charon can't _take_ anymore. He pushes himself away, putting his hands up, and Gob scrambles to his feet.

 

"Sorry—I'm sorry, was that—too much?"

 

"Yes," Charon says, quietly, lowering his arms again, and Gob takes a step back, hugging himself.

 

"I'm sorry. I just...are you okay?"

 

"I should—" Charon says, struggling to get up too quickly, and his knee buckles, throwing him off balance. Gob lurches forward to grab him, but Charon's weight knocks him back against the wall as Charon catches himself on it with a hand.

 

Gob sucks in a breath, standing stiff as Charon looks down at him, breathing hard. Still too close—they're too close—they're not close _enough—_

 

Charon moves without thinking, pressing himself up against Gob, and Gob gasps again, holding his breath as Charon rests their cheeks together, holding Gob’s upper arms in an attempt to steady them both. His heart thudding painfully in his chest, Charon can't imagine he would have ever done such a thing without Max's fucking _corruption_ of him, but he quickly comes to the conclusion that this is what he's wanted to do for _years_ , with every feeling he’s never understood until now, every gentle flutter inside of him when Gob’s hand would brush against his own, and the tightness in his belly upon seeing Gob’s smile. How long he'd waited for that in Underworld, how _empty_ he'd felt when Gob was gone...he'd just wanted to be closer.

 

Gob finally breathes, though he still doesn't move. "Ch-Ch-Char—" he whispers, words tickling what's left of Charon's ear, but he doesn't at all sound unhappy, and so Charon just lets out a low hum in response. He stays there for a few seconds longer, until he feels just how _very_ aroused he's made Gob, and then quickly pulls back. _Oh._ Maybe he should have expected that. It startles him out of his daze, and he has to wonder just what the hell has gotten into him, because this...this is wrong. He can't do this. 

 

"I should go," Charon says, and Gob chokes, still pressed back like he's pinned there. 

 

"Please _don't,_ I want—"

 

"But you cannot."

 

"I know...I know, I...Charon, I-I—"

 

" _I_ cannot," Charon says, shaking his head, and then he turns and leaves without looking back.

 

**x**

 

"You know," Max says, tracing the back of Charon's hand with a finger, "we never talked about what happened to you."

 

Charon closes his eyes, wondering if he can just pretend to be asleep, but he can feel Max’s eyes boring into him, waiting for a response. He tucks his other arm behind his head, considers for a moment, and then says, "There is really nothing to talk about."

 

Max gently flicks his hand, giving him a look when he opens his eyes again. "That's a lie. You can't lie to me."

 

"It is irrelevant."

 

"'Course it is," Max says, sighing, and then lays back down beside him. They've been spending most of their time resting together, and as much as Charon has admonished his own perceived laziness, he hasn't actually decided to do anything else, which Max is grateful for. "Can you at least tell me you're okay?"

 

"I will be," Charon replies simply, shifting the leg still causing him trouble. It bumps up against Max's, and Max apparently finds it a reason to blush. There is no damn reason for him to be as charming as he is, and it's irritating _._

 

"That's good. I want you to be okay. Because I really, really like you, Charon. I, um...well, I like you."

 

Charon doesn't respond, uncertain how to, and instead just pulls Max’s hand up to his cheek and holds it there.

 

“Charon, I’m...at the outpost, when I k—when I...I...I wasn’t—”

 

The kiss. Of course. They haven't mentioned it until now, though Charon never forgot. He knows now that it was only an accident, and it doesn't frighten him as much as it probably should. If Max had only asked...he doesn't think he would have said no, especially with how sick he was, his willpower nonexistent, and it could have been something for both of them. For once, just once, in his worthless goddamn life, he just wants to be _asked._  “It is nothing."

 

“It’s not nothing! I...I should have asked. I shouldn’t have done it at all! I—”

 

It is still so refreshing to have what _he_ wants considered, and he lifts a finger, placing it on Max’s lips. He doesn't know what possessed him to put his finger _there,_ but it certainly does the trick; Max goes silent and stares at him, wide-eyed.

 

“Thank you,” he says. “You are the first to see me worthy of a choice. In anything,” he adds quickly, when he notices confusion in Max’s face. No, they won't ever be having _that_ conversation.

 

“You’re worth everything, Charon,” Max whispers, gently kissing Charon’s finger, and this time it’s Charon who feels heat rushing to his cheeks, hoping it isn't noticeable under the damage. His eyes lock onto Max’s lips, and he can’t look away. God, he needs to move back down to the couch...this constant proximity is only making him want Max more.

 

Max giggles nervously, looking away, and then he sighs. “Maybe if...maybe if I was a girl, it’d be different. Sometimes I think being a girl would be nice…”

 

Charon doesn’t even think he’s heard right for a moment. "What?”

 

Taking Charon’s disbelief as something else, Max sits up, cringing. “No, I mean, like, I don’t, that’s fuckin’ _weird,_ I shouldn’t’ve said that, uh—”

 

“No, no, that...you think...?" Charon starts, before suddenly he recalls everything Max has said about himself, all the times he’s called himself a bad person. Is _that_ why? Max thinks he's 'bad' because of something he cannot control? He shifts, taking both of Max’s hands, and squeezes them.

 

“Max...that is not why. It is...it is far more complicated. It has nothing to do with your gender. Love...it does not have anything to do with gender. The vault...they told you it was wrong?”

 

“Well...it’s not _right._ ”

 

“And why not?”

 

Max’s brows furrow in confusion. “Because...it just isn’t. ‘Cause no one else is like that. They told me that. And they got really mad. They...um...well, they got mad.”

 

“No. _No,_ Max, they were wrong, not you. You are not bad. There...there are no _rules_ like that.”

 

“But...there have to be,” Max says, sitting up. “There are. Why else would everyone be so mad at me?”

 

Charon takes a minute, trying to find the words to explain what even he doesn't understand. He looks up, meeting Max’s eyes, and notices the boy is close to tears. He sits, offering his shoulder, and Max leans against him, sniffling.

 

“It is different,” Charon finally says, slowly, “and people fear what is different.”

 

“...Why?”

 

“I would tell you if I knew. But different is not bad. They lied, Max. There is nothing wrong with you. There are plenty of people like you.”

 

“Are...are you like me?” Max asks, shaky and fearful, and Charon hesitates.

 

“I...rarely feel attraction…”

 

“But you probably think girls are beautiful, right? Like...like Nova? I know she's pretty, but I can't see her like I’m supposed to. I never have, and I know I _should,_ but—"

 

“I think you are very beautiful,” Charon interrupts, and Max _squeaks,_ covering his face.

 

“Y-you do? Really?”

 

Charon hums softly and pulls Max’s hands away. “Yes."

 

“But...you don’t like me like I like you. I mean...I'm sorry, but...I _really_ like you. In a bad way."

 

"It is not a bad way," Charon says, and closes his eyes. "You need to stop believing it is. It is not that. You are...my employer, Max. It is far more complicated than you know, or ever could.”

 

“It wouldn’t even be...right, would it? Would it...would you have to? The contract...that makes it...weird. I don’t want to be like that. I’d never be like that, Charon. I promise. Like...I'd never _order_ you or something. That's gross.”

 

Charon almost groans, because more than anything he wants to believe it, wants to just forget his past and move on, but God, he  _can’t_. “It is so, so complicated, Max...”

 

Max nods, closing his eyes and tugging the blanket up to his neck. “Sorry. I...I won’t talk about it again, I just...yeah. Sorry. I’m really sorry.”

 

Again apologizing for who he is...they had told Max he was born _wrong._ How disgusting, how _vile_ did someone have to be to say that to a child? To do so repeatedly enough that it convinced him to hate himself? Had his father told him that, too? Charon hasn't heard of such prejudice in a long time; not since just after the war. Then suddenly there were ghouls, and most discrimination had switched to them. The hatred had never left, of course; they had all just found something _else_ to hate.

 

They will always find something to hate.

 

Before he can stop himself, Charon pushes Max’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. Max looks up at him again, then at his lips, and Charon so desperately wants them to be closer, even more so than they are now, than they have ever been before. He wants to kiss Max, to touch him, and he wants it far too much.

 

Though, at least, if he allowed it to happen, he could prove to himself that it isn't _really_ what he wants, because it just can’t be. He doesn’t want to be _with_ an employer. He’s never had anything but animosity towards his contract-holders, and he can’t believe that the one time he hasn’t, it’s so quickly crossed the line from innocent appreciation to _lust._ This can’t be what he wants.

 

And yet, it is.

 

Then again...if he says yes, it will be too late. It’s too risky to believe he will be able to take it back. He’s never had the choice to begin with before, but if he agrees now, and decides it _isn’t_ what he wants, then…

 

Then what? They’ve been together for months now; if Max was going to take advantage of him, he surely would have done it by now, and he hasn’t, not in any way at all.

 

And as much as he hates himself for it, Charon might be starting to trust that he never will.

 

After a long minute, he finally says, “I think you are _too_ beautiful, Max. You are very hard to look away from. You are too kind to me, and...and I should not think of you...the way that I do.”

 

“O-oh?” Max manages, almost too startled to speak, and Charon nods, resting his palm against Max's cheek.

 

“I think…” he starts, and then trails off, uncertain on how to proceed. He’s never done this before, and never imagined he would. “I believe that…”

 

“What do you want, Charon?” Max asks, placing his hand over Charon’s, and Charon just doesn’t _know_ what he wants. That’s the damn problem. He’s completely torn between the repulsion he feels towards anything sexual, and the awful, overwhelming urge to kiss Max breathless. He wants, but he _doesn’t_ want, and his head is in such a constant state of confusion that he doesn’t even know if a kiss will clear anything up at all or make it a hundred times worse.

 

“I-I’d never...I’d never do anything you don’t want. You know I won’t, right? Not ever again.”

 

“That is...a promise?”

 

A little startled, Max nods. “Yes! Yes, I promise.”

 

Charon shifts, trying to fix the cracks in his willpower before it crumbles completely. “If I wished to get no closer...you would—”

 

“Charon,” Max says, taking his hand. “I swear. It’s okay. I...I like you, but it’s okay if you don’t.”

 

But he _does,_ and he _shouldn't,_ and it's tearing him apart. He shakes his head, closing his eyes, and then reaches up to run his fingers through Max’s hair. “Max,” he says, voice hoarse. “I _do."_

 

"You...really? Not just because I do?”

 

Charon shakes his head again, cupping Max’s cheeks between his palms. “Why must you do this to me?” he whispers, brows knit together, and Max blinks up at him, confused.

 

“...What?”

 

“I would like to kiss you,” Charon finally breathes out, and Max stiffens, his eyes going wide.

 

“You...y-you would?”

 

“Yes. _Yes._ But I cannot. You are my employer, and I must remain professional. I must. The contract...I am…”

 

“Charon—” Max starts, and something inside Charon snaps. He pulls Max closer, catching himself just as their lips are a mere inch apart. He breathes out harshly, and Max trembles; Charon might be trembling, now, too.

 

He has to know. He just has to. 

 

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Charon asks, _demands,_ and Max chokes softly, nodding.

 

“Y-yes. Yes. I do."

 

“Ask me.”

 

“...Wh-what?”

 

Charon tries to breathe, but he can't, and he's definitely shaking. “I...I wish you to ask me. Please. Ask _me._ If this—I want—I _need_ —”

 

“Can you kiss me, Charon?” Max asks, and that's what breaks Charon's resolve, what sends him surging forward, crashing like a wave as their lips meet, his arms wrapping around Max and holding him close. 

 

He can. He _can_. 

 

It feels nothing like he thought it would; it's better, so much better, and he's fairly sure this means his plan has backfired, because instead of convincing himself otherwise, he never wants to pull away. His entire body shivers and tingles in a way it never has before, and Max gives the tiniest whimper as he starts to return the affection, so soft and cautious. Charon's eyes slide closed, and he still can't breathe, and for once he just doesn't _care—_ but then he has to pull away because it’s too much...far too much… _too_ _much..._

 

Max stares up at him, speechless, and Charon scoots back, shaking his head, panting. “I-I apologize. That was…”

 

Max licks his lips, unaware that the action nearly _kills_ Charon. “That was r-really nice,” he says, gnawing on one of his knuckles. “That...oh, wow.” He giggles, covering his face, and lets out another squeak. Wow. Oh, _wow_. This time, with a clear head and Charon's consent, he'd been able to truly appreciate the experience. Charon's lips are scarred and rough, but still softer than he imagined they'd be; they taste like smoke, though not unpleasantly. One kiss isn't near enough, and he wants a thousand more, but...he can wait. He will wait. "W-was it...was it nice for you?”  

 

Charon swallows hard, and tries to formulate a response. That had been so much more innocent, so much softer, than any kiss he's had before, and he doesn't feel sick inside like he’d feared, like physical affection has always left him feeling before. Instead he’s pleasantly lightheaded, warm, and confident that _he_ had been in control. That’s all he wants. He wants the freedom to be control of his own body, and with Max, so far, that’s been achievable. He likes how Max treats him, and how Max makes him feel, and...Max. He just likes  _Max._

 

And dear God, he had liked that kiss.

 

“Was it?” Max asks again, starting to sound concerned, and Charon finally looks up.

 

“Yes,” he says, and Max smiles, delighted.

 

“As long as you liked it, too,” he says, and then watches in awe as the corners of Charon’s mouth tilt just slightly upwards.

 

“Are you...smiling?” Max asks quietly, and Charon really doesn't know. He can only focus on Max, on how warm and content he is inside, and how right it feels when he puts his arm around Max again, pulling him close and putting his face in Max’s hair. 

 

“I love you,” Max mumbles against his chest, and Charon knows they're going to need to talk about that, about this, about _love,_ something Max probably doesn't even understand and that Charon doesn't think he even has the ability to experience, but not now. Not yet.

 

For now, he just wants to stay here, just like this, for as long as possible, for as long as Max will let him.

 

Max hums softly and closes his eyes, giving no indication he wants to move anytime soon, and Charon feels something long forgotten, something he never expected to again.

 

He feels alive.

 

**x**

 

_"Hey there, kiddies. Three-Dog here yet again for an update on that nasty Enclave. Remember a while back when I mentioned there was more of those guys hangin' around, lookin' for somethin'? I thought they'd given up, but nah, they're back, and they're all over the place, even more than they were. I don't know what's goin' on, but someone told me they overheard somethin' about...water? I...honestly have no idea what that has to do with anythin', or why they're so fuckin' intent to find it. I mean...have they not found the river? Are they lost? Somebody should give 'em some directions. Or give a nuke to those pretty vertibirds. Either way, I'm still gonna warn ya to stay out of the way when one of those flies by. Did you know they have mini-guns on the sides of them? Shit. I'll be glad when they find what they want and leave everyone else the hell alone. Anyway. Until next time, this has been Three-Dog; bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some more music..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COME! CRY! WITH! ME! AND! LISTEN! TO! DUMB! LOVE! SONGS! PLEASE! [andneverlookback](https://andneverlookback.tumblr.com/)


	23. Best Left Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was by far the most difficult to write, and I think it'll stay that way. It's very dark, but I'm sure most of you could probably conclude a long talk needed to happen before anything could move forward.
> 
> WARNING for...fucking everything? A lot of heavy talk about (past) rape/non-con, mentions of both past and present self-harm, suicidal thoughts, mentions of a (past) suicide attempt, the breakdown-est breakdown that will probably ever be in this story, and a sort of flashback.
> 
> Yikes.

Slowly opening his eyes and finding himself still wrapped tight in Charon’s arms, Max is delighted to know it wasn’t a dream.

 

They’d kissed. They’d _kissed._ Charon had kissed him. A real kiss, a real one, it had been _real_.

 

He coos softly and Charon shifts behind him, arm curling tighter around his body, one of his ankles coming to rest atop Max's foot. They're so _close_. It's perfect. He doesn’t remember when they decided to lay down, or when he fell asleep, but he finds he likes this just as much as before, a more intimate sort of cuddling than they had been doing before. Of course before had been wonderful, too, but... _they kissed._ It's different now. 

 

He murmurs Charon’s name and gets no response, and then hums. Charon had been comfortable enough to fall asleep, too...oh, he loves this. He loves Charon. He never wants to get up.

 

He lightly trails his fingers down Charon’s arm; his skin catches on ridges, traces over hard, exposed muscle, but it still doesn’t frighten him. It doesn’t feel wrong, just different.

 

Maybe he is not wrong; maybe he is just different.

 

 _And people fear what is different,_ Charon had said. Initially, Max had feared Gob. The sight just hours after coming out of the only world he’d ever known had nearly been too much to handle. He had changed his opinion within just a short while, but he had been in the vault for nearly twenty years, and none of them had ever tried to change theirs. In fact, they'd only seemed to get worse with time.

 

Maybe they _could_ have changed, and they just didn’t want to, because he wasn’t worth the effort.

 

He takes a lot of effort. His dad had told him so, although in a much more lighthearted manner than Max is taking it now. Had he laughed back then? He doesn’t think it’s funny. He _is_  too much effort; he's always been too many bad thoughts, too many lost fights, and too many stolen bandages.

 

He rolls his sleeve back, inspecting the marks there, the marks Charon had _seen._ He hadn’t said anything...but, of course, what could be said? Charon isn’t the type to ask personal questions. Max hopes, in a way, that that never changes.

 

He’d seen these, but he hasn’t seen the rest. He never will, either, if Max has any say in it. Charon had kissed him, yes, but with the contract...he doubts it will go any further, or that Charon will ever want to do anything that requires them to be undressed. Max _wants_ to, wants to see and touch and _kiss_ all of Charon, but then...it would be expected of him, too, and that just can't happen. As self-conscious as Charon must be about how he looks, he hadn't chose to be that way; Max had made the decision to destroy himself. He wishes Charon would love him, every part of him, but he knows that’s asking too much; it's just too much effort.

 

 _‘What have you done?’_ his father had asked, over and over and over again, as he lay half-conscious in sheets soaked with his own blood, as he was wheeled into the medical bay, and when he woke with sixteen stitches and the heartbreaking knowledge that he had failed.

 

He’d made himself unlovable, is what he had done.

 

He’d made himself an even bigger target, because word travels fast in a vault, and nobody could keep their mouth shut about the fucked-up boy-lover kid who’d just attempted suicide the night before his eighteenth birthday.

 

 _‘You have so much to live for,’_ his dad had said. _‘You are so young. Things will change. We’re going to help you, okay? Take these. They’ll make it better.’_

 

The pills hadn’t really made anything better, just more bearable. He cared just a little less when someone shoved him against the wall, or when that bastard of a bully Butch and the rest of his gang beat him bloody, but it didn’t stop hurting. He stopped etching into his skin and instead used a pencil in a little book, but drawing was not what he wanted to do when Butch had found it and the stupid doodles inside and threw it in the dirtiest toilet.

 

They'd stopped trying to fix him, but it didn't make him forget what they'd already done.

 

And now, he doesn’t even have the haze of medication to help anything. He doesn’t have school bullies, but he has himself, and his head is far worse than anyone could ever be. He’s alone, really, and if he can’t stay right here with Charon curled beside him forever, then he doesn’t know what the point of living is at all.

 

Charon shifts again, and exhales a long breath, and Max smiles faintly at the feel of it through his hair. He laces his fingers with Charon’s, presses their bodies even closer together, and sighs. He feels safe here. Content. It’s afternoon, judging just by the heat, but it means nothing to him. He has nowhere to go, and therefore neither does Charon; nothing is more important than this, right here. It just can’t be.

 

Stirring a little more abruptly, Charon lets out a very unhappy sound and trembles. Max frowns, stroking Charon’s arm, and then carefully turns onto his back to look at him. Charon releases him and curls his arms around himself instead, grunting again, pressing his face against the pillow. 

 

Max has been sleeping next to him long enough to know immediately it’s another nightmare.

 

With a sigh, he moves to face Charon completely, taking his hand. He still, regretfully, doesn't know how to help; several times he's tried to wake Charon up with gentle pats and kind words, but Charon never responds positively. He has to startle out of sleep himself, while Max can only watch him suffer, as useless as ever.

 

“It's okay,” Max whispers, running his fingers through Charon’s thin locks and then planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. He's never been able to do that before...maybe it'll make a difference? “It’s okay. Charon…”

 

“ _No,_ ” Charon says, grimacing, and then reaches out and shoves Max right off the bed. Max cries out, landing painfully on his hip, and Charon jerks upright, panting.

 

“Um, ow,” Max mutters, and Charon flinches and folds into himself, pressing up against the wall and hissing when the metal burns his arm. He blinks hard, the pain bringing him back, and he relaxes as he realizes it's only Max; it's not…

 

It's only Max.

 

“I-I apologize,” he manages, “I am sorry. I did not—have I injured you?”

 

“Not really,” Max says, pulling himself back up and offering a little smile. “Kinda bruised my butt, I think...”

 

Charon holds his hands very tightly against his chest, biting his lip. “There are bruises?” he asks quietly. 

 

“No, I was just—” He stops, and _glares,_ and Charon has to look away.

 

 _“Charon._ You can't fuckin’ think I'm still gonna hurt you, right? Do you? _Do you?_ ”

 

It's nothing less than a command, a direct question, and Charon grabs a fistful of the blankets and chokes out, “I do not know.”

 

Max feels tears in his eyes, trying to hold them at bay. “But...we kissed,” he says, so very softly. “I thought...but...we kissed.”

 

Charon closes his eyes, unwilling to face the reality of the night before. That had...really happened. That hadn't just been a dream. He breathes out a bit shakily, and then finally nods. “We did.”

 

“We did! So why...why do you still think…?”

 

Ashamed, Charon lowers his head. He doesn't know how to explain that affection has never meant a damn thing before, not like this; it’s always just been another way to harm him. He wants to forget, would do just about anything to, but he doesn't know how. He _can’t_. He doesn't know how to think any different, or stop expecting retaliation at every mistake; the fear is a part of him, just as the contract is.

 

“It's...not your fault, is it?” Max continues after a moment, and Charon ducks his head even more.

 

“I didn't mean to blame you. I know it's...hard. I'm sorry. So sorry.”

 

“I want to forget,” Charon says, without meaning to, and Max reaches out to take his hand. He can still see the discoloration and scabbing around Charon’s wrists, and he hates himself just a little more.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Charon brings Max's hand up to his cheek, and then lays down again.

 

“We can just sleep today,” Max says, snuggling up to his side, and Charon closes his eyes. 

 

“And...you...if you wanted to put your arm around me again...you could,” Max adds, hopefully, and Charon moves too quickly to do so, turning onto his side and holding Max tightly against him, breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent of his hair.

 

“I really like this,” Max says, bumping his nose up against Charon’s chin. “I really like you. Can we just...stay here forever?”

 

Charon sighs heavily and only wishes they could. He doesn't respond, but he does intertwine their fingers, and Max smiles like that's good enough.

 

“Do you think,” Max says after another few minutes, “that maybe...we could—you could kiss me again? I don't mean now! It doesn't have to be now...but...do you wanna do it again? Sometime? I really…it was…”

 

Oh, Max is _killing_ him. “It was...nice,” he murmurs, and Max nods, looking up.

 

“Really nice,” he agrees, and then Charon slowly leans to press a gentle kiss to the corner of Max’s mouth. Max bites his lip, flushed, looking so damn _pleased,_ and then Charon finally gives in and gives him a proper kiss, albeit cautious and hesitant. When he pulls away, Max squeals softly and covers his face, giggling.

 

“That...yes. That feels really...yes.”

 

Actually a little dizzy, Charon kisses Max's nose, and then his forehead, and then the freckles right over his cheek. He wants to kiss _everywhere,_ he realizes, and he almost can't stop himself. He'd made such a horrible, _horrible_ mistake last night...

 

“You can...give me another, if you want,” Max says, and Charon doesn't even hesitate this time. He _does_ want, so damn much, but he can't have, and it never should have gone this far to begin with.

 

Still, he can't bring himself to stop. It feels so _right,_ with Max's too-soft lips against his own, with his permission, and then Max tilts his head, humming softly and resting his hand on Charon’s shoulder. Charon's breath hitches, because that's too much...that’s…that's not enough at all, and his eyes slide close as he deepens the kiss.

 

 _Oh._ Max stifles some noise in his throat and shakily sighs out a breath, gripping tightly at Charon’s arm and thinking how it can't get better than this. It just can't.

 

He's proved wrong just a second later when Charon’s other hand comes to rest heavily on his hip, squeezing, and he unintentionally moans, startling Charon away again. God, he just needs to relax, but... _wow._

 

“I did not intend to touch you as I just did,” Charon says, slowly, with the back of his hand against his mouth, and he's acting like it physically _hurt_ him, or maybe hurt Max. Max tries to move closer, tugging Charon's hand in an attempt to put it back.

 

“You can,” he murmurs, achingly hard under the covers and more than a little desperate. “Th-that felt good, too. Really good."

 

Charon shifts, pulling away and shaking his head, and Max wants to groan in frustration; this is _torture._ He wants to rip that stupid goddamn contract to shreds so Charon can just _take_ him.

 

“Why are you scared?”  

 

“I am not afraid,” Charon says, unconvincingly. “I...I just think that we have done enough for now.”

 

“Oh…” Max murmurs, disappointed, and then nods, trying to remember it's not all about his stupid self. “Okay. That's okay. Whatever you want. Do you think...maybe we could stay here for a while? And just...be close?”

 

“I...need to smoke,” Charon says, carefully climbing over Max, and that's probably for the best. Max...well, he needs a minute. It's not his damn fault. They've kissed _three whole times_ now.

 

Charon’s knee accidentally touches Max’s thigh, and Max grunts softly, wriggling. It takes every bit of willpower he has not to ask again if Charon will stay right here...or just lower himself down…just... _just..._

 

“Fuck, _Charon_ …” he mumbles, and somehow his hand has traveled down to himself, and Charon is already three feet away and just _staring_ at him as it registers how embarrassingly obvious he's being.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” is the only thing Charon can apparently find to say, and Max flushes, gripping the sheets with both hands and trying to calm himself.

 

“S-sorry...I just...I really...like you…it just...happened…” he says, and Charon stays where he is, chewing on his lip.

 

Max squirms, uncertain whether to be concerned or turned on by that unblinking gaze. “...What? Are you...are you mad?”

 

“No,” Charon says, and his voice is even deeper than usual. It's...probably from sleep, but _God,_ Max is having a damn problem here and Charon looking at him like that and _sounding_ like that is _not helping._

 

Charon doesn't even realize he's staring until Max whines his name again, and he almost stumbles in his haste to leave, shutting the door behind him.

 

_Shit._

 

He wants to listen. He wants to _watch._ He fucking can't do that. No. He won't let himself. This has all already gone too far.

 

He hears Max pant out another moan from inside—God, Max really _is_ trying to kill him—and he quickly distances himself, going down the stairs. He paces for a minute, trying to ignore his own disgusting arousal, but it's _really difficult_ , because he knows Max is up there touching himself and thinking of _Charon._ He's never felt such an overwhelming lust, has never felt it at _all,_ and—he wants Max. He really _wants_ Max. He wants to kiss him and touch him and—

 

But he can't. He knows damn well he doesn't deserve to have that. Max wouldn't even want him anymore if he knew everything Charon has done, and everything that others have done to him.

 

He shoves the front door open and gulps in a breath of fresh air, steadying himself against the railing. The metal is hot, and it burns his hand, and he lets it.

 

He wonders just how quickly Max would get rid of him, how quickly this surge of affection would fade, if he knew that Charon had been ordered to force himself upon a girl Max's age not fifty years ago.

 

His stomach twists and he grabs the railing with his other hand, grimacing. He doesn't want to think about it. God, he just wants to _forget._ But he had done it. He had. It had been an order, but it was still _him_ that eventually followed through. That has to mean it’s his fault. It _is_ his fault. He'd sobbed apologies throughout, just as he always had, but he knows they’d meant nothing to her, or any of them, and it never did a thing to change what happened. He’d still done it.

 

And then he had been ordered to torture and kill her mother, and her father, and her child brother, all in front of her, and he'd done that, too.

 

And then he'd left her alive, surrounded by the death he'd just inflicted.

 

‘ _Leave her_ ,’ his employer had said, as he stood before the man and trembled, wiping bile from his chin. ‘ _That's what bitches that bite deserve_.’

 

Their blood, all on his hands. Her entire life destroyed, completely by him. It’s still easily the worst thing he's ever done, and he will never forget the sound of her crying echoing behind him as they left, as he followed his employer’s gang off to wherever they decided to terrorize next.

 

It could have so easily been Max. It could still so easily _become_ Max. If Max lost hold of his contract, or if someone stole it from him, Charon could...he could…

 

He has to pull his hands away, hissing, and stares down at the welts across his palms. It doesn’t hurt anywhere near enough. He drops to the ground and positions himself, and his arms are shaking before he’s even done a single push-up. He’s grown weak. He has a weak employer, and it’s rubbed off on him. He needs to fix that.

 

He barely gets to ten, a pathetic number compared to what he used to be accustomed to, before his arms give out. His knee takes the entire weight of his fall back onto the metal boardwalk and he chokes out a cry, helplessly lying there until he can move again, until he can _breathe_ again.

 

There’s blood under where he’d been bracing himself, and he realizes just how badly he’s burned himself as he tilts his already blistering palms up. It’s nothing less than he deserves.

 

Maybe if he hurts his hands enough, they'll stop being able to hurt others.

 

He drags himself back to his feet and grabs the railing again, but it hurts _too_ much, and he stifles a groan and pulls away. He's being stupid; he won't be able to regain lost muscle if he can't use them, and he _has_ to do that. Almost shaking from the exertion of it all, he manages to get the door open again and then makes his way to the bathroom to soak the wounds.

 

Max is by his side within half a minute, buzzing with satisfaction and humming happily, and then he gasps. “God, what happened?”

 

“I burned myself,” Charon says, honestly, and Max doesn’t seem to catch on how intentional it was.

 

“Yeah, I noticed.” He reaches to help, and Charon flinches away like they haven’t been touching for weeks, like he’s never allowed Max this close before.

 

Max takes a step back, startled. When Charon offers no explanation, no response, he simply nods and says, “Okay, uh...you got this, then. I guess...are you hungry? I’m hungry. I’ll fix something, yeah?”

 

Charon is still silent, and so Max murmurs a ‘ _yeah’_ back to himself and nods again before going off.

 

What Charon had encouraged to happen...it cannot continue. It just can’t. He has to stop it. 

 

It’d been a nice idea, but God knows Charon doesn’t deserve nice.

 

**x**

 

Max has no idea why, but Charon takes up sleeping on the couch again, and for almost five days he barely speaks. Each time Max has sat down beside him, trying to talk, Charon has removed himself, gone outside to be alone. He's asked Charon to come back to bed, but Charon has simply refused with a curt shake of his head and gone about his business, back to cleaning his unused gun twice a day and working out more than he should be while he’s still recovering.

 

Charon might be even more talented in avoiding things than Max himself is.

 

“Why won't you talk to me anymore?” Max finally asks, on the verge of tears, and Charon doesn't look up. He's on the floor, doing as many pushups as his weakened arms can be forced to handle for the third time in as many hours, and he doesn't want to talk.

 

“Hello? What did I do? What it because—because I…” Max lowers his voice, ashamed, “...touched myself?”

 

Charon outright laughs, though it’s somehow still the coldest sound Max has ever heard. He doesn’t sound amused; he sounds strained, exhausted, and maybe exasperated. “ _No_.”

 

Max breathes out a sigh of relief, and then frowns. “Okay...then why? Please, c’mon, I don’t know what I did!”

 

“You did nothing,” Charon says, and then suddenly collapses, face-planting onto the floor. Max gasps and drops to his knees beside him, but the second he touches Charon’s shoulder Charon is scrambling away, scowling, pressing himself back against the couch as he pants and wipes blood from his lip.

 

“Stop touching me,” he growls, and Max is so utterly confused and frustrated that, when he stands back up, he stomps his foot on the floor like he used to as a child throwing a tantrum.

 

“What the _fuck,_ Charon? Why? I thought—why’d you kiss me if you were just gonna do this? You make my head hurt! And my heart.”

 

“I should not have kissed you,” Charon says, and Max gives into his tears, letting out a sob, because he'd damn well known it was too good to be true.

 

“Why? _Why?_ I thought—I thought you liked me, too!”

 

Charon doesn’t look up, afraid that if he does, if he sees Max crying, he won’t say what he knows he has to. Instead he takes a breath, shakes his head, and says, “I must remain professional. I must. You are my employer. I cannot...have relations with you.”

 

“What? It—it says that? _Where?_ ”

 

_‘Show me where it says I can't.’_

 

Charon trembles, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. _Stop..._

 

“Stop _what?_ ” Max asks, and Charon firmly presses his lips together, trying to prevent anything else from escaping without his permission.

 

“You can't just—you can't just—Charon, I _love_ you, you don’t—”

 

Not _this_ again. “No, you do not. You do not love me. You cannot. You purchased my services not four months ago, and you do not know what love is. You are nothing but a child, and you know nothing about me...or what I have done.”

 

“Then fuckin’ talk to me! You haven't said anything in like a week and that's _normal_ for you!”

 

“What do you wish me to say, Max?” Charon demands, and he finally raises his head, eyes burning with a rage Max hasn’t seen in awhile. “What? That I love you, too? I do not. I will _never_.”

 

Max hugs himself and whimpers, shaking with more tears, and Charon looks away again.

 

“But...but why? We kissed…”

 

“It was a mistake.”

 

“But _why?_ I...I don’t know…please...I just...I don’t know what I did...I thought...I thought everything was okay, and…”

 

Charon rubs at his temples, taking a few deep breaths to try and calm himself. “You did nothing, Max,” he sighs, and his voice quiets. “It is...me.”

 

“What...what did _you_ do? What happened?”

 

What _hasn't_ he done? What _hasn't_ happened? “I could never tell you everything I have done. You do not wish me to do so.”

 

“What does that have to do with anything? I thought...I thought we were okay. If you don’t wanna kiss anymore, that’s fine, but please don’t just...don’t do _this,_ it’s not fair!”

 

Well, nothing's really fair, in the end, is it?

 

“I have hurt people,” Charon finally says, and Max's brow knits together.

 

“I know...you've told me you—”

 

“No, you do not understand. I have...I have _hurt_ people. I have tortured them. I have killed them...”

 

“Charon, I _know._ You—”

 

“I have raped them,” he interrupts, spitting it out, and it’s not something he ever thought he would actually admit. But Max needs to know he is _dangerous,_ that he is disgusting and ruinous and unworthy of being touched by someone so pure.

 

Max immediately backs away, as Charon always knew he would, and it's as relieving as it is painful.

 

“But they were orders,” he says, and to Charon, it almost sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. 

 

Maybe he's finally starting to see Charon as the monster he is.

 

“They were orders,” Charon confirms, and Max nods.

 

“Orders…okay…”

 

He doesn't understand Max’s quiet tone, or why he hasn't taken a swing at him yet and purposefully broken the contract to get him  _out._  “I resisted until I could not, and I did not wish to, but I obeyed. I have been ordered to do...so many things. I have done that...I have subdued them while employers did so...and this is why...this is why it is not okay for this to continue. I am sorry I have kept this from you until now.”

 

“Orders,” Max says again, and he feels awful for momentarily being so confused; of fucking course they’d been orders. “That means...that’s different. That’s different. That means it’s not your fault. That's not even... _that,_ then.”

 

Charon scoffs. “And what led you to that conclusion?”

 

“Uh...the contract? You just said it was because they _told_ you to do it.”

 

“It was them who ordered me, but it was me who followed through.”

 

“No,” Max says, slowly breathing out, “it wasn’t you. You...you really think that? But they...they _made_ you. That's not even the same thing!”

 

“I am certain it did not matter to those I hurt,” Charon says, and his voice cracks. Max wants to comfort him, but right now, trying to touch Charon or even moving closer is probably the worst thing he could ever do.

 

“It’s...really fucked up, but...but it wasn't your fault. You didn't want to.”

 

“And they did? Max, _I_ am not the victim here. I am...I am a _monster._ I have done that, and I have done more. I can try to resist, I _have_ tried to resist, but the contract always wins. It always will. Is that...is that not enough to convince you? I have sold children into slavery, Max. Under my last employer, I handed over a girl no older than fifteen for a bag of chems and _vodka._ I have...I have ripped apart families, and lives...I am nothing but a weapon, I do nothing but _destroy_ _,_ and I—I wish you to know this, and I wish you to stop pursuing my affection, because…”

 

Max takes a deep, shaking breath. “Do you think you're gonna hurt me, too?”

 

Charon swallows hard, shifts uncomfortably, and then nods.

 

“But you _can’t_ hurt me.”

 

“Not while you hold my contract,” Charon says, gesturing helplessly as words momentarily fail him. “But the second you no longer do, I cannot protect you. I _will_ not protect you. If my new employer ordered me—Max, I do not think you understand the _danger_ of this, of _me_ —I cannot—”

 

“No, no, no. I’ll find somewhere really, really safe to put your contract, okay? I’m not gonna lose it!”

 

“You cannot foresee that! No matter how in love you think you are, I would still _kill_ you, Max. If I was ordered to, I would kill you or _worse_.”

 

Max trembles slightly, and tries to pretend it isn't true.

 

“And not only that, but—but the things I have done? Did you hear _any_ of it? I am _disgraceful_ , I am—I am unbefitting to _look_ at you, let alone—”  

 

“Charon, _Jesus,_ that's not true! How can you think that? It’s your contract! It's not you! Even if... _if..._ someone else got it, and they told you to hurt me...it still wouldn't be your fault. I'd...I'd understand. You're not a bad person. You’ve just...had to do bad things. You can’t say no, right? You can’t. So that means, everything that you did, it was all _their_ fault. You would have said no if you could.”

 

If only, _if only_... “Stop. No. It is _my_ fault.It—”

 

“No, _you_ stop,” Max demands, and Charon's jaw snaps shut with an audible _click_ as he stares up at him.

 

“Don't be fuckin’ stupid. You wouldn't have done any of it if they hadn't told you to, right? _Right?_ Are you really telling me you _wanted_ to do that stuff? To torture and...and that? That you _enjoyed_ it?”

 

Charon scratches the back of his hand, trying to steady his breathing. _No,_ he hadn't enjoyed any of it, not a damn fucking thing, especially not _that,_ but that doesn't mean he had never physically responded, even with his employers, even with _that_ employer, because his very fucking being was a traitorous piece of—

 

“Well, _did_ you?”

 

_Did he?_

 

_‘Did you like that? Huh? Sure seems like it—’_

 

“ _No._ No, no, _no._ " He clutches at his head, completely overwhelmed, but Max doesn't seem to notice, or is too caught up to realize he needs to—

 

_'Stop, just stop—leave me alone!'_

 

 _‘That little paper says you don't give the orders here. Pretty sure it mentions something about you being mine, too, but hell, you know I don't mind reminding you_ —’

 

“Of course not!” Max says, throwing his hands up while Charon covers what remains of his ears, looking around to try and ground himself, to remember there's no one else here. That bastard is dead, he's  _g_ _one,_  and he has been for almost three _decades—_ why won't he get the fuck out of Charon's head?

 

“So why would it be your fault? It's not! It's not your fault! It's theirs! They just—they basically raped you, too!”

 

Charon flinches, shrinks away like Max struck out at him, and Max stops dead, his eyes going wide, only now realizing how distressed Charon has become, how distressed Max has made him.

 

“No,” he says, too quietly, and Charon looks up at him, freezes, and then shakes his head, echoing 'no' twice more and turning away; Max thinks Charon might even be _shaking_ as he breathes out so forcefully it sounds painful, and...

 

He's _scared,_ but surely Max is reading this wrong. That's not possible.

 

“Charon, _no,_ hold on, wait—but they _didn't,_ right? That's not even—you—”

 

“This is—this is not about me,” Charon tries, desperately, “it—”

 

Max utters his name again, and Charon stutters to a halt, breaths trembling. He thinks he might have blacked out for a moment, because he doesn't know what just happened, or  _how_ that had come out, but he had never, ever meant for it to. Not that. Not to Max. It isn’t even supposed to be about him _._ He’s not the victim in this. He’s not a victim at all. He’s the monster. He’d deserved what he received. It was just _karma._

 

Max kneels down, and Charon flinches again; Max almost can’t find his voice. That _can’t_ be right. He can’t be interpreting this right. It's not even _possible._ It can't be.

 

“Please,” he finally says. “Please say they didn’t. Please. Right? Because...that'd be violence. That's not allowed. That can't be allowed, _right?"_

 

Charon looks up, as close to tears as Max has ever seen him.

 

“It is not in my contract,” he chokes out, and Max feels as if the room is suddenly heavier, the realization weighing down on his shoulders. Oh, _God._ How violently Charon recoils from touch suddenly makes too much sense. This entire time Max has spent trying to get closer, taking it personally when Charon shied away...as Charon's employer, as Charon’s _owner,_ as someone in such a position of power that had been abused before…

 

He hadn't known. He hadn't. He'd been thinking only of himself while Charon must have been expecting coercion from the very first time Max laid a hand on him, even before he'd grown to think of him as more than a bodyguard. He'd made Charon sleep next to him at Rivet City despite his obvious discomfort—he'd _forcibly kissed_ Charon, sent him into a panic attack and been so goddamn _selfish—_ the way Charon had _looked_ at him after that kiss, so frightened and helpless and completely traumatized, because Max had promised again and again that he wouldn't hurt him, and then he'd gone and done it anyway.

 

This, combined with his perceived crimes, everything else his employers had forced him to do—they can't all have been like that, right? Oh, he _prays_ —and _Christ..._ it's no wonder he has so many nightmares.

 

He manages, “Oh, _Charon,_ ” and Charon swats in his direction and stands, staggering as his knee buckles and then sitting down heavily on the couch.

 

“Do not,” he pants, “do _not_. It is irrelevant. You know nothing. You know _nothing._ ”

 

“You’re right!” Max says, backing away with his hands up, because Charon is having _another_ panic attack, and for the second time it's entirely Max’s fault. The guilt is unbearable, crushing; he's hurt Charon so, so much...he had  _promised..._

 

“You’re right. I don’t. I don't know anything. I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t...uh...I don’t know. I’m sorry. Wh...what can I do? Please, I want to help, I—”

 

“ _Help?_ ” Charon says. “You can stop, Max! You can stop this! Please, I need you to stop. _Stop._ There is—there is _nothing_ that has happened to me that I did not deserve, I—”

 

“What the fuck are you—”

 

“I am not the victim! I am not—”

 

“You fucking _are!_ ” Max says, far too loudly, and Charon lets out a strangled sound and shudders, lowering his head again. He reaches up and claps a hand down over his mouth, and he—he’s not going to cry. He won’t. He _can’t._

 

His shoulders tremble, and his breath catches, and then he does anyways, directly in front of his goddamn employer. It's the worst thing he could ever possibly let one of them see, and he's always done all he could to prevent it; if they ever knew he was that upset by something they taunted him, put him through it again and  _again_  until he finally trained himself to stop reacting at all, for his own safety as well as for others.

 

Sometimes, though...sometimes something broke him beyond what he could handle, and he just couldn't hold himself together no matter how hard he tried, and Max is the first to look on with pity and regret instead of delight and amusement.

 

He can’t be the victim.  _They_ had been the victims. He hurt them, and his employers had hurt him back. It’s completely fair. He deserved it.

 

“You _didn’t_ deserve it,” Max says, and sits beside him, and Charon covers his eyes with his other hand, choking on the tears he’s still trying to keep silent and unknown. He wants to get up, wants to escape, but he can’t. He can only sit there and _cry_ like the pathetic creature he’s become. 

 

This was never supposed to happen. He should have rotted away against that wall in the Ninth Circle, he should have died when the bombs fell, this was  _never_ supposed to happen.

 

Max is utterly devastated as he watches Charon break down, unable to think of a damn thing to do. He never thought he would see Charon cry, and certainly not like this, not these gut-wrenching sobs that he can still hear despite Charon doing his best to prevent it, the ones that are shaking his body like he's frail, like he hasn't killed raiders with his bare hands or dug bullets out of himself or kept going for two hundred years when he never wanted to.

 

If only Max had known…

 

“It's not your fault,” he says, but it doesn't seem to do anything. Charon might not even hear him; instead he just keeps crying, maybe even cries harder, leaning over to press his face against his knees. Max doesn't want to touch him, doesn't even want to speak again, and so he simply sits there, biting at his nail.

 

“I am sorry,” Charon finally gasps, “I cannot—I am—”

 

“You don't have to,” Max says, very softly, and it's yet another phrase Charon has never heard. He doesn't have to. He _doesn't_ have to. He wants to stop the tears, but he doesn't _have_ to, and so he just stops trying, lets them come until there aren't any more and he's left coughing and sniveling and rubbing at his swollen eyes but somehow calmer, just a bit. Nothing's better, but there's some relief to the emptiness now, instead of just the numbness he's become accustomed to.

 

When he's confident he's regained control over himself he sits up, too ashamed to look in Max’s direction and instead staring down at his lap. “I...I apologize. I lost myself.”

 

Max only asks, “Can I take your hand?”

 

“I am _defiled,_ ” Charon says, shaking his head in disbelief, but Max is a naive little fool, and he should have come to expect it by now. “Why do you still wish to touch me?”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

Charon sighs, because the boy is goddamn hopeless, and shrugs. Max takes his hand, still soaked with tears, and holds it tight as he quietly murmurs, “There is _nothing_ wrong with you.”

 

It’s so convincing, Charon almost has second thoughts.

 

Almost. Not quite. If Max wants to tell himself that to validate his ridiculous infatuation, then fine. He can. But it doesn’t make it true. Charon knows the truth.

 

And just like the rest of his past, it’s best left forgotten.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Max goes on, “and it's not your fault. Nothing you did was your fault. I know I don’t know anything, but I know that. The contract...if you had _wanted_ to do it, you’d be a bad person. But you didn’t, did you?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Charon manages, so brokenly, and Max squeezes his hand, bringing it to his cheek.

 

“See? You’re a good person, Charon. What they made you do is...it’s not your fault. And what they did...that wasn't your fault, either. That wasn't karma. That was evil."

 

Charon is just too damn tired to argue anymore. He shakes his head and mumbles, “Max…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Charon slumps a little, overcome with a sudden exhaustion so intense he almost can't sit up straight. He never wanted Max to know, and he certainly never wanted even _more_ affection to be the response. “I...would like to sleep,” he finally says, because what he really wants, to rest far longer than just a night, isn't an option. “Please.”

 

With a little sympathetic smile, Max nods. “Okay. Um...here?”

 

Charon rubs his eyes again. “I do not understand how you could ever possibly want me in your bed again. How could you still want to be near me after I have admitted... _everything_ to you? And Max...it was not everything at all…”

 

“Well, I do. I don't feel different. I know it wasn't your fault, whatever you think, and I know...Charon, you're not defiled. You're not.”

 

Charon leans over even more, still too tired to speak on a subject he never, _ever_ intended on sharing.

 

“I definitely don't hate you, either, if that's what you think. I don't think I ever could. I don't think of you any different. I really don't. I think...maybe...you should sleep, and...and we can talk tomorrow. Or not. I still think you should sleep.”

 

“I should not be close to you,” Charon says, and Max plants a gentle kiss on his hand, a hand that has hurt too many to count.

 

“Do you want to be?”

 

Charon hesitates. “I am...I am…”

 

“Not guilty,” Max says, quietly, and Charon closes his eyes.

 

“Max…I could...I could so easily…”

 

“I could do a lot of things, too,” Max says. “I could hurt you, but I won't. I don't want to. And I know you don't want to hurt me. Just because you _can_ doesn't mean you will. I trust you. I trust y—oh!”

 

Charon impulsively cuts him off with a desperate kiss he doesn't even really mean to give, gently grabbing at his hair and pulling him close, trying to convey everything he wants to say but _can't_ into it, and Max holds his hand even tighter.

 

“I trust you,” Charon mumbles, and Max melts against him even as he breaks away, because those words...they're even better than _I love you_.

 

“I wish I did not," Charon continues. "I wish. I _wish._  I am...overwhelmed by you. I do not know what you are doing to me..."

 

“I think it's called _feeling_ ,” Max says, smiling softly, and Charon shakes his head.

 

“I was not created to feel.”

 

“Well, maybe I'm just special, and you can feel me. Uh, feel _for_ me.”

 

Charon feels so goddamn much for him, it could never properly be explained. Not in words, not in kisses, not in anything.

 

“I think,” Max adds, “that you're really special, too. To me, anyway.”

 

Charon gives him a _look_ through half-lidded eyes, and Max giggles. It's a good sound to hear, after all that.

 

“You are. Shush. You're the one who doesn't know anything.” His smile fades, and he rubs at his arm. It only seems fair to let Charon know, after all this...especially since...

 

“Um,” he starts, “when I was in the vault...they, um...I told you they didn't like me. They said I was wrong. So...so they tried to fix me.” He clears his throat, and waits a moment, and then continues.

 

“It was mostly...just...stupid things. Talking to me, and...and telling me how wrong it was, and making me pray, and...well, some other stuff. But there was...there was a boy, and his name was Adrian, and I loved him a little. I think he did, too. We held hands a lot, when no one could see. But then I tried to kiss him, because I like to ruin good things, and his dad came in and saw. He hit me, and he told the Overseer I tried to force him, and Adrian didn't say anything, because he was scared. It wasn't his fault.”

 

He stretches his legs out, shaking his head. “The Overseer...I really hated him. He was always the one telling me how gross I am—er, was...was not…? Whatever. He did a lot of bad things. But after he got told about Ady, he said that...that if I wanted to stay, and wanted my dad to keep his job, then I had to...I had to really _prove_ I wanted to change. And he said the way to do that, was to...to _be_ with a girl. But...but not, like, date her, he...he told me I had to _do_ her.”

 

Charon is scowling when he looks up again, though quickly softens his expression when he meets Max’s eyes.

 

“He was...so gross about it. He even set it all up, and I...I went, because I was scared, but I couldn't do it. She was just some stupid lady I never fuckin’ talked to, but I still couldn't. But she...she...fuck, she _touched_ me, okay, and I guess I liked it, but I also really didn't. She wouldn't stop. I told her to _stop._ She said she was helping but she fuckin’ made me feel worse _,_ and then...and then I...th-the camera in the corner was on, and I think he was _watching_ , and I still feel fuckin’ gross, so...there. Since you...you think you're so dirty, well…so am I.”

 

“Oh, Max. You are not dirty,” Charon says, and Max makes a face but stays quiet.

 

“That is…” He squeezes Max’s hand, and wants to burn that fucking vault to ash. “That was disgusting and wrong of them. I am so sorry. None of that should have been allowed to happen.”

 

Max nods, looking away. “I killed him, and I didn't feel bad. I really didn't. And...and you know, he told me it _wasn't_ wrong. I didn't even know...until you just told me...that it could...that it...that, um...well, it wasn't really _that_ , was it? I mean...I...I had a thing...I came, or whatever, so…”

 

“That is still…” Charon starts, and Max winces.

 

“Is it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh.” He deflates, pulling into himself. “I tried to die, after. I wanted to even more than usual. It makes sense, now. He just said I was overreacting...but he also told me not to tell anyone. So...I shoulda known it was bad. Is that...is that how you feel?”

 

Charon tries not to squirm, uncomfortable. “I...I try to forget,” he says softly, and Max sighs.

 

“Me too.”

 

“...But I cannot.”

 

“Yeah. Me neither.” He's silent for a moment, a deeply troubled look on his face. “But...but I didn't even know...like, he said it could only happen...that...that...just girls,” is all he can choke out, and Charon takes his other hand, too.

 

“ _No,_ Max.”

 

“Okay,” he says, and closes his eyes. “This is...this is too much. I don't wanna think about it anymore. I wanna sleep. I can't think when I'm sleeping. Will you…?”

 

How can Charon possibly refuse now? He'd never expected he would pour the most private part of his life out to an employer, but then, Max is more than that, isn't he? He deserves more than that awful, awful title. And the way he trusts Charon enough to _willingly_ share something just as private...the circumstances have changed. Max _understands_. He can't hurt Charon, not like that. He just can't. If anything, Charon trusts him even more now.

 

He doesn't _have_ to. He just _does._

 

He nods, getting up, and follows Max upstairs.

 

Max anxiously hovers at the edge of the bed, even as Charon lays down, and stammers out, “Can we...be close? If you want...if you...do you even wanna? Is it weird, after we just said all that? I don't wanna…”

 

Charon extends his arm in an invitation, and Max practically collapses down against him, curling up with his head resting in the crook of Charon’s neck.

 

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles.

 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Max.”

 

“I'm sorry we’re damaged.”

 

“You are not—”

 

“Don't say it about me unless you can say it about yourself.”

 

That stops Charon in his tracks. But...he _is_ damaged. How could he possibly pretend otherwise? He cannot lie to Max. He cannot lie to _himself;_ not about this. “That is something I cannot do.”

 

“Not yet,” Max says, “but someday.”

 

Sure. Someday. And someday Max will die, and someday this will all just be another fading memory.

 

“I’m also sorry I make you feel things,” Max adds, nuzzling him gently, and a short, rumbling chuckle is his response.

 

It's when Max has almost fallen asleep that Charon speaks again, and his voice is raw with emotion. “I cannot love you,” he says, and Max sighs softly.

 

“I...I pro’ly knew that…I—”

 

“But I think I would like to try.”

 

Drowsiness fades, and he feels a blush creeping onto his cheeks again, and he glances up. “Y...yeah?”

 

Charon doesn't reply, but he doesn't have to. Max had heard him perfectly clear, and for once he doesn't feel he needs confirmation.

 

“I'd like that,” he says after a minute, and Charon lets out his breath, relaxing against him. He gives him a kiss on his forehead, the most gentle thing Max has ever felt, and Max smiles, lacing their fingers together.

 

He'd like that a lot.

 

**x**

 

_"Hey there, ladies, gents, and everyone else. Three-Dog here with the latest news. And that news is...not really much of anythin'. It's been pretty clear weather out here. Figuratively speakin', of course; that acid rain last night was sure somethin'. Muties fightin' away as always, but the Brotherhood's got a pretty good hold on 'em for now. Raiders doin' their ugly thing, but I ain't heard word of them winnin' any more or less fights than usual. I don't like it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love hearin' that a bunch of lives ain't been lost for no reason. I'm thrilled about that. You know I am. I don't like how quiet it is. If I'm bein' honest, it's kinda freakin' me out. Maybe this is just the way of it, now. I know we all'd be damn fine with that. It's the wait-and-see that's botherin' me, because somehow I don't think a sudden case of morals is what's got this wasteland all silent and tumbleweeds and shit. Am I overthinkin' it? I can already hear ya'll tellin' me to lay off the Jet, but I ain't done that in a while, okay? Last time I saw some weird shit...but I'll tell ya about that another time. For now, this has been Three-Dog; bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	24. His Freedom (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE BACK. With TWO chapters! It's really technically just one, but like 11,000 words was a teeny bit much not to be split somewhere. Plus, I like how the titles turned out.
> 
> ALSO, this story just recently hit over 200 kudos! That’s literally insane, I never thought this would get as much love and support as it has, and it means more to me than I could ever, ever explain. THANK YOU!
> 
> Oh, and this chapter has some, um...well. It's got some things in it. 
> 
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

_"Crazy in love…"_ the radio sings, filling the empty bar with soft music, and as he watches Nova light a cigarette in the corner, as he hears her humming along, Gob definitely is. He rests his chin in his palm, eyes half-lidded, and enjoys the moment before she glances up, swatting her hand in his direction.

 

“You've got to stop staring, Gobbie.”

 

“Sorry,” Gob murmurs, cracking a rare little smile, and starts wiping down the counter again. It’s only in the early mornings, when that drunken bastard is asleep, that they can breathe and speak and just _be_ without the constant threat of punishment hanging over their heads.

 

“You just...you look very beautiful, Nova. As always.”  

 

“Oh?” she says, smirking as she blows out smoke. “As beautiful as the tall one?”

 

Gob squirms, scrubbing harder. She's prying for information, just as she has been since he came back nearly three weeks ago, shaken by what Charon had—and _hadn't—_ done. She wants to know what left him so different, but _he_ doesn't even know what happened. How can he explain that Charon had made it very clear he felt the same way, and in the same moment told Gob nothing could ever become of it? His head hurts just thinking about it. His _heart_ hurts.

 

It's just the same as Nova; she had let him know years ago that while they were under Moriarty’s thumb, nothing could happen. The punishment they would both receive would be worse than anything they could think of, if caught, and Nova hadn't been willing to take that chance, even with Gob up against her in the darkest corner of the bar, peppering her face with kisses and love that he'd been holding back for so long. She'd pushed him away, breathless, and Gob had stumbled back to slump in one of the barstools with tears in his eyes.

 

 _‘It's for your safety, too,’_ she'd said, coming over to pet his cheek, then kiss him, so gently, the only thing Gob ever wanted to feel again, gone too soon.

 

He can't be happy. That must be it. He just isn't allowed to be happy. Otherwise, _something_ in this awful, too long life of his would go right for once.

 

“I don't know,” he finally says, “can’t I think you are, too?”

 

“So you admit it…” she coos, and Gob stops, frowning.

 

“No. I—I mean—well, it doesn’t _matter_ what I think about him, does it?”

 

It’s not really a question, but Nova purses her lips and tilts her head, deciding to push anyways. “Please tell me what happened?”

 

“Nothing. Nothing.” He glances up, listening closely to try and assure they’re still alone, and lowers his voice. “Nothing _can_ happen. It isn’t...it isn’t right, and I don’t want to talk about it. Please?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Nova says quickly, nodding. “I was only—”

 

“ _Please,_ ” Gob says again, rubbing at his head. “You’re...you know I love _you,_ right? I-I always have. He doesn’t matter. If we ever—”

 

“I know damn well,” comes Moriarty’s voice from the top of the stairs, still heavy with sleep, “that yer not talkin’ instead of cleanin’ for today’s customers, right, _boy?_ ”

 

Nova stubs her cigarette out with a sigh, and Gob trembles slightly, shaking his head and bracing himself on the counter.

 

“N-no, sir. I—I'm—I'm doing a real good job, Mr. Moriarty, sir.”

 

“Are ye now?” He snorts and comes down, stretching, taking his time in that deliberately tormenting way he knows frightens Gob the most. “I think I'll be the judge of that.”

 

“Y-yes, sir,” Gob says, backing away as Moriarty approaches to swipe his index finger across the surface, then rub it together with his thumb. He hums in a displeased sort of way, then shows them to Gob.

 

“What's this?”

 

Gob helplessly shakes his head, wringing the cloth in his hands. “I don't...I don't know, sir.”

 

Moriarty scoffs. “Are you blind, zombie? Come closer, then!”

 

Shifting, Gob would probably rather take the resulting punishment than get closer to the stinking monster of a man, but he obeys. It doesn’t really matter, he knows, because he’ll get hurt either way. And as expected, as soon as he's within reach, squinting, Moriarty swings an arm up and slaps him, grabbing his shirt as he cries out and tries to pull away.

 

“I heard every word,” Moriarty hisses, and Gob's eyes go wide in terror as Moriarty drags him halfway over the counter and hits him again.

 

“Let me tell ye somethin’, hmm? Are ye listenin’, ye worthless sack of shit? I'm really, really gettin’ tired. Ever since he came ye been even more useless than before, and it fuckin’ ends here, ye hear me? We get a lot of people in here, and I'm goddamn sure a few of ‘em would have no trouble takin’ him out for a few caps, if it comes to that.”

 

“N-no, sir!” Gob whimpers, blinking back tears. “Don't...don't, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—”

 

“That isn't good enough,” Moriarty says, tossing him onto the floor and then looming over him. “I don't want ye to ever speak of ‘im again. Not behind me back, either. If he comes in here, yer to act like he doesn't exist, ye hear? Because if I see ye so much as _look_ at 'im again—”

 

He stomps his foot between Gob’s legs, digging his heel down, and Gob shrieks.

 

“—I'll fix ye like the fuckin’ mutt ye are, and then it won't ever be a problem again. Get me?”

 

“Y-y-yes!” he sobs, too afraid to lay a hand on the man to push him back and instead scrabbling desperately at the floor. “Yes, sir! Please, _hurts,_ please stop, sir, please!”  

 

“Colin,” Nova says, very quietly, ever afraid to make it worse, but Moriarty finally takes a step back, smiling at her.

 

“Yes, Nova, dear,” he says, moving over to her as Gob chokes on another wail and curls into himself. “I’d appreciate it if ye didn't encourage that kind of behavior, hm?” He grabs her face, squeezes gently, and asks, “Yer not gonna make me hurt him, are ye?”

 

She keeps her expression neutral, and shakes her head as much as she can. “No.”

 

“Good girl,” he says, releasing her, stroking a hand through her hair and then going to unlock the door. “Gob, get up. Now!”

 

Gob only whines, and Moriarty huffs in annoyance. He reaches down, grabs Gob’s arm, and yanks him up, shoving him against the counter.

 

“Stand up! Fuckin’ rotter. Can't believe ye even still got feelin’ down there. Are we on the same page now?”

 

Shakily, Gob stumbles away, still hunched over, and finally nods. “Y-yes, sir,” he wheezes, clenching his fist. “Yes, sir.”

 

Moriarty cups a hand behind his ear, jerking forward, and Gob flinches back, repeating himself twice more, much louder.

 

“Ah. There’s a good zombie. Now pour me a drink. Ye gave me a goddamn headache.”

 

Nova shakes her head and lights another cigarette, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes as the smoke trails up around her. She lets out a too-loud sigh, and Moriarty downs a shot before looking over at her again.

 

“Got somethin’ to say, Nova dear?” he asks, slapping Gob’s hand when he doesn’t immediately pour another. “Like maybe how ye would never love such a disgustin’ thing like him? Hmm? Would ye?”

 

Forcing a strained smile, Nova replies, “‘Course not,” and Moriarty smiles, nodding.

 

“Good lass.” He kicks his feet up on the counter, throwing back another drink as Gob stands there, very still, with his head down.

 

“Yer a _corpse._ Did ye really think a beautiful thing like her would take ye?”

 

“No, sir,” Gob says, quietly, grief audible through his voice.

 

Moriarty is delighted, smirking, and slams his shot glass down. “Another. Now cheer up, both’a ye. It’s gonna be a good day. I can feel it.”

 

**x**

 

“I'm real sorry,” Max says, barely coherent with his face buried in Charon’s shoulder, “but I think...I think I wanna go see my dad.”

 

Charon pauses for a moment, then continues lightly trailing his fingers along Max’s back, nodding. “As you wish.”

 

Max tilts his head up, squeezing Charon's other hand and frowning. “You don't...don't think it's a bad idea?”

 

“It is not my place to say. He is your father. If you wish to see him, then we shall go.”

 

“But he's a _dick._ He...he left me. I don’t know why I miss him so much. I just do. I hate it.”

 

“He is still your father.”

 

Max’s expression twists into something puzzled, as if he hadn’t considered that to be a possibility, and then he shakes his head. “But last time we went somewhere, it was a _really_ bad idea…”

 

Yeah, and Charon had definitely mentioned that a few dozen times on the way there, but he probably shouldn't bring that up.

 

“Rivet City is safe,” he says instead. “And if we stay close to the river it should be a quick, easy path there. I am not going to say we should not go, although I am starting to think that is what you wish of me. Is it?”

 

Max sighs heavily, aggravated. “ _No._ Well, yeah. Kinda. I don't know. I really don’t. I hurt you last time we went out. If you wanna stay—you _should_ wanna stay, and—”

 

Charon cups Max’s chin and tilts his head up, meeting their eyes. “You did not hurt me. They did. And they are dead.”   

 

“There’s more of them,” Max says, putting his hand over Charon’s, then pulling it up to rest against his cheek. “Somewhere. And they probably know. They probably want us dead, too.”

 

“I am not…” Charon starts, and then cuts off, frowning. Not afraid? No. No, he’s not afraid, he’s _terrified._ To even imagine coming across Outcasts again, the possibility of anything similar to what he had just been through happening again…he would rather they kill him. At least, if he’s being honest, that’s a far more likely outcome than anything else.

 

“Not what?” Max asks. “Are you okay?”

 

“I cannot lie to you,” Charon murmurs, “and it would be a lie to say I am not...concerned by them.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re...you’re right. We should just...stay here, then, right?”

 

“Max, I will go where you do. There are a hundred things out there that want to kill us. It is no greater danger than it was before.”

 

“It's us who’s changed,” Max says, and they're silent for a long moment as that settles in.

 

“Yes,” Charon responds at last, “but it has not all been bad.”

 

Max looks up at him with a tiny, fond smile. “Yeah? You mean...me?”

 

“What else?”

 

“I'm...I’m a good thing?”

 

The blush that creeps over Max’s cheeks at the praise is _adorable,_  and Charon nods, tucking his arm around Max again. “And I have had very few good things in my life.”

 

_None at all, actually._

 

Max leans up to nuzzle Charon’s neck, humming happily, and Charon shivers. Max has noticed just how sensitive his neck is, right under his chin and right above his collarbone, and he's not too subtle in his little attempts to brush his fingers over the spots, having to resist pressing his lips to them every time he’s close.

 

They’ve done nothing more than kiss for weeks, going at the pace Charon wants no matter how agonizingly slow it is, and then yesterday...Charon had let it go just slightly further. Max hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, about the way Charon had wrapped an arm around him and held him closer instead of pulling away, and _especially_ hasn’t been able to forget the sound of Charon’s gasp when he at last broke the kiss, his eyes searching Max’s for _something_ before he cleared his throat and acted like it never happened at all.

 

They’ve done nothing more than kiss, but Max’s desperate desire to touch Charon, to make him gasp like that again, to make him _moan,_  has only gotten stronger. And he’s aware of himself, of every move he makes, ensuring he doesn’t make the same mistakes he did before, but the amount of times he has had to excuse himself for a little while is getting ridiculous, because Charon can drive him crazy with just a few kisses, an accidental brush against his lower half, a _look._

 

It’s awful, and yet it’s thrilling. Max hates it, and yet he doesn’t hate it all.

 

“Do you...do you maybe wanna kiss me?” he finally asks, hopefully, and Charon glances down at him, at his lips, with those stupid blue eyes that Max loves so much.

 

“Yes,” he says, nodding, and Max tilts his head, offering, letting Charon choose when their lips meet. When Charon moves forward, still so hesitant after they’ve done it a hundred times, Max sighs happily and rests his hand on Charon’s cheek, then moves it down to dance his fingers just under Charon’s jaw.

 

Gently grasping Max’s hair, Charon closes his eyes, as relaxed as he ever gets against the mattress. As much as he had feared that their conversation would destroy this, it hasn’t. He still doesn’t want it any less, and clearly neither does Max; if _that_ hadn't driven them apart, he doubts much could. They have yet to mention anything spoken about that night, but there's a mutual understanding that wasn't there before. And the way Max has been so careful around him, holding back, always asking if Charon is okay and never doing anything without explicit permission...

 

Is he...is he allowed to be happy, for once? Or at the very least content? Is it even possible? Because if he thought he could even _feel_ happy anymore, he would be convinced that this is it.

 

Max sighs again, breaking away and resting his head back against Charon’s neck. “I...I really like kissing you. I do. Do...do you?”

 

Charon licks his lips and hums softly in agreement, petting Max’s hair again. “Yes. It is nice.”

 

“Yeah?” Max asks. “G-good.”

 

“Good,” Charon repeats, kissing just beside his ear, and Max giggles softly before stretching and then sitting up.

 

“I gotta go to the bathroom. But...but also, if we’re gonna leave...well, we have to do something first."

 

“Oh?”

 

“We... _I..._ can't leave without…” He sighs. “I have so many caps. I want to use them to pay off Gob and Nova’s debts.”

 

Charon frowns, craning his head to the side to stare. “You are going to give that man your money when I could just end him?”

 

“Charon, you have no idea how much I want him dead, okay? But you can't just—it would be dangerous. Especially if you did it. They'd gang up on you. They might kill Gob, too. Nova could get hurt. We can't do that.”

 

Charon purses his lips, not used to thinking kills through so thoroughly before proceeding. “No, I suppose you are correct.”  

 

“That happens sometimes, yeah. He's gonna drink himself to death in a couple weeks, anyways, especially with this money. I just want them out of there. I can’t leave them again. I'll keep a couple hundred for food and clothes and stuff, and then I'll give the rest to them. Okay? Okay.” He nods, dragging himself up, and Charon catches his hand, tugging gently to get his attention.

 

“You are good, Max,” he says softly. “To do this, you are good.”

 

Max bites his lip again, leaning closer. “I-I…I like when you say that,” he whispers, shifting, and Charon blinks up at him.

 

“That...you are good?”

 

Max winces slightly and nods, shifting his weight again. “It...it makes me feel better. And also...just...um...tingles.”

 

The atmosphere changes slightly, gets a little heavier. Charon grips the blanket tightly in his other hand, clearing his throat. “...Oh?”

 

“Sorry. But...yeah. But I don’t—I didn’t mean to be weird, I—” He tries to pull away, and Charon tugs him again.

 

“It is not weird,” Charon says, keeping his voice low. “You are...you are _very_ good, Max...”

 

Max whimpers, and his legs visibly shake, and Charon tries so, _so_ hard to ignore the heat that shoots down his spine at the sight, scrunching the blanket tighter between his fingers.

 

“You can’t do that,” Max mumbles, breaths trembling, “You shouldn’t. I’m gonna...I’m gonna get all _that_ again, and…”

 

Charon freezes, taking his hand away. “You are uncomfortable. I apologize.”

 

Max giggles nervously. “I’m not...it’s just...your voice is...um…well, it’s nice. I like how it sounds, and…” He winces again, breathing out harshly.

 

His heartbeat pounding in his chest, Charon’s mouth is suddenly almost too dry to speak. “Yes?”

 

“It's just...really...really nice,” Max says, and then quickly turns around. “I gotta...I have to go now.”

 

Charon doesn't stop him this time, biting his lip as he watches him leave, and then curses himself. He'd gotten _far_ too much satisfaction out of making Max that flustered. Max...likes his voice? He likes being praised? To have had such brief control over him with merely words was _maddening,_ and Charon is a little disgusted at how badly he'd wanted to continue, to cause Max to blush and squirm and maybe even make those little noises Charon hadn't been able to really appreciate before.

 

He imagines how it might be even better with Max _underneath_ him…kissing him, and wriggling, and _touching_...

 

He grimaces and fidgets, rolling onto his back and crossing his ankles. He knows he needs to _stop_ , needs to push this...this... _hunger_ away before it gets any worse, but this time he can’t, can’t prevent more images of Max unclothed and flush against him from flashing across his mind. They’ve been kissing, yes, but Charon has deliberately pulled away if Max got too excited, or if he himself couldn’t catch his breath. He’s mostly managed to keep it controlled, to keep it from going too far too fast, but it becomes more difficult each time, and now...now he doesn’t _want_ to stop anymore. He doesn’t want to do _everything,_ but he wants to do more. He shouldn't, but he _needs_ to.

 

He pulls another one of the blankets over him, trying to cover his slight arousal and pretend it isn't there at all, and then tilts his head back with a harsh exhale as his hand brushes against himself, jolting him to the core even over two sets of thick fabric.  

 

Oh, _no._ He won’t be doing that. He isn’t even going to _think_ about doing that. He hasn't acted on his _own_ disgusting desires since...no, he can't remember. Has he _ever?_ He can't recall ever deciding it was a good idea to...to...well, to do _that._ He’s rarely ever found anyone attractive enough to even give a second glance, let alone _fantasize_ about like he does with Max, and the very idea of sex has never made him anything but nauseous until Max, until he for whatever reason decided he might like it if one day they could be that intimate.

 

He’s not there yet. He doesn’t know if he ever will be. But God...how _perfect_ just Max’s hand would feel around him...or his _lips_. Max would never want to do that, and Charon doesn't even think _he_ would, either, but to just think of it...of how _soft_ they are...Max, oh, _Max…_

 

Max returns quicker than Charon expects, pushing the door open and halfway through a sentence before freezing as Charon jerks his hand from under the covers and coughs.  

 

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?” Max finally sputters, entirely offended, and Charon feels his entire body turn hot in embarrassment.

 

“I apologize…it was...it was not…I did not know I was…” He hadn't _actually_ touched himself, is what he's meaning to say, but it had been close enough, and it's too shameful for him to put into words.

 

Max rubs his hands over his face, still trying to unsee what will _definitely_ be the death of him if he keeps thinking about it. “Do...do you want me to leave or something?”

 

“I would never…” Charon says, grimacing, and Max looks him over.

 

“Do you...um...I think I can pretend I didn't see that…or…”

 

“Max,” Charon mumbles, and Max squirms.

 

“Y-yes?”

 

Charon shifts around, grips at the pillow, and then finally gives in and reaches out for him. “I do not...I do not wish to do...all of what you are expecting. But I think, if you wished...if you wished to kiss me, I think—”

 

“God, can I?” Max breathes, stumbling a step towards him, and Charon nods.

 

“Yes,” he says, and Max climbs into bed beside him and kisses him, desperately. Charon cups his cheeks, his leg automatically coming up to wrap around one of Max’s, and Max grunts, pushing himself against Charon’s side, gasping out a curse as he feels Charon hard against his thigh.

 

Charon makes a soft little noise at that, and it's somehow both the cutest and the hottest thing Max has ever heard, making it near impossible to collect himself into something even mildly coherent as he pulls away, breathing hard.

 

“Can I—can I just—can I put my arm around you?”

 

After a moment of thought Charon nods, and Max slips his arm around Charon’s waist, hand resting on Charon’s behind, leaning to kiss him again before Charon grimaces and shakes his head.

 

“Not there,” he says, shakily, nudging Max’s hand, and Max quickly moves it up to rest at his upper back.

 

“S-sorry...sorry...is this...better?”

 

“Yes.” He's nearly cut off as Max kisses him again, stifling another sound when Max's hand closes into his shirt, pressing even closer.

 

“Charon,” Max whines softly, rolling his hips against him, and Charon gasps, his hand coming to rest at Max’s side.

 

“That..."

 

"G-good?"

 

"Very," he says, hesitantly, and Max struggles to hold back the groan that elicits, choking on it as he does it twice more until it's just not enough, until he's sure he's going to _die_ if he doesn't get more contact soon.

 

“I—I need to— _please,_ I just—” He pulls away, grimacing, and gently tugs at Charon's hair. “I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_ , just—feels s-so good...I really…”

 

Charon struggles to catch his breath, shaking slightly. “You are sorry…?”

 

Max squirms, whimpering again. “I’m so—I'm _so_ hard, I can’t, _Charon,_ I don’t know—I need to—”

 

Charon's arm comes around his waist, brings him closer; he feels Max against his stomach and nearly can't hold back a groan. With a harsh breath, he murmurs, “Do you still wish...to do more?”

 

Somehow managing to go completely still in his shock, Max can only stare. “Wh-what? More? Like…”

 

“Not...not _that_. I cannot. But…” All shame, all _sense,_ momentarily blocked out by this fire hot, unbearable arousal, Charon kisses him again and then murmurs right into his ear, “I wish to touch you.”

 

“Oh, my _God,_ ” Max says, sounding so distressed that Charon realizes just what he’s said and pushes away, horrified. What is _wrong_ with him…?

 

“I am...I am sorry, that—”

 

“No, _no,_ ” Max says, grabbing his hand, “it was...s-so good, I’m...I want that _so_ much, Charon...but that’s...is that too much?”

 

“I am uncertain,” Charon replies, honestly, and Max pets his cheek.

 

“We can just...just kiss, I told you. O-okay? I’m not...I’m not tryin’ to make you—”

 

“You are not making me do anything,” Charon says, biting his lip. “You—you are _good,_ Max. You...I only wish to make you feel better.”

 

“O-oh?” Max moans softly, settling his hand back on Charon’s shoulder and pulling himself a little closer. Charon’s eyes slide shut, and his breath catches, and Max hesitates. This isn’t all about _him._

 

“What—what can I do for you?” he asks, and Charon looks at him again, confused.

 

“I am sorry?”

 

“I want—I want _you_ to feel better. I w-want to make you feel good, too.”

 

Charon almost immediately shrinks, pulling the lower half of his body away and tightening his grip on Max’s arm, sucking a breath in through his teeth.

 

Max lowers his voice and shakes his head. “I didn’t mean—I don't have to touch you! It doesn’t have to be that. Just—anything you want. What...what do you want?”

 

“I do not _know_ what I want,” Charon insists. “I still cannot understand why you wish any of this to happen at all.”

 

“Because I do know what I want, and it’s you,” Max says with a smile, moving his hand up again to stroke Charon’s hair. "You're a good person, Charon. I wish you'd just realize it, or stop wondering why I already did. I'm not stupid. Not _that_ stupid."

 

"No," Charon agrees, though he still isn't so sure.

 

"Can I...do something? Kiss you?"

 

"Yes..."

 

Max tilts his head to kiss the spot just under Charon's chin, nipping it, and Charon gasps, his whole body going rigid.

 

"O- _oh,_ " he breathes out, "do not...please do not do that..."

 

"Oh...that didn't feel good?" Max asks, disappointed. "Sorry..."

 

"It felt too good," Charon mumbles, shaking his head. He reaches up to cup his hand over where Max had kissed, biting his lip, and then says, "That... _this..._ it is overwhelming."

 

“Then we can stop, okay? If you want to, we—”

 

“I do not think I wish to stop,” Charon says, holding Max’s hip again, and Max forces himself to keep still.

 

“No? You...this is good?"

 

Charon nods, leaning to gently kiss him again. “It is good.”

 

“What...what would make it better?” Max dares to ask, biting his lip, and Charon slowly looks him over.

 

“What would please me most, Max...is to see _you_ pleased.”

 

Max can’t hold back a whine at that, gripping Charon’s shirt again. “O-oh? Yeah? That...you still want to?”

 

“I believe so, yes.”

 

“But...you're not completely sure?”

 

Charon looks away, pursing his lips, and shrugs with one shoulder.

 

“You don't have to, Charon. We can wait until you are.”

 

“What if I am never completely certain?”

 

“Then…we just don't," Max says in a matter-of-fact way. "And that's okay.”

 

At that, Charon gives a soft, content hum and finally brings himself closer again. It's...it's not sex, not really; it's just Max, and it's just touching. He knows he'll be able to stop at any point, if it becomes too much...and God, he _really_ wants to see what it will do to Max, far too much, the lust he's been feeling for months spurring him on to make a choice he hopes isn't the wrong one.

 

“I am mostly certain that I wish to try, Max,” he says at last, and Max bites his lip.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes. Can I conclude,” he continues, voice low, sullen, “that you still wish me to, as well?”

 

“God, _yes,_ ” Max says, wriggling. “Yes. _Please_ …”

 

Charon kisses him, shifting, and then finally, slowly runs his hand down to rest at Max’s inner thigh. He winces, and Max can tell he's _terrified,_ so he nods and wraps an arm around Charon’s shoulders, steadying both of them.

 

“That...that's good.”

 

“Yes? I may...continue?”

 

“Yes," Max manages, and then lets out a soft cry when Charon finally, so slowly, slips his hand down into his underwear, wrapping his fingers around him.

 

Charon’s eyes close for a moment. He _never_ would have expected to be allowing himself to do this, but he finds it’s as pleasurable for him as it seems to be for Max, and he definitely doesn’t regret it. Uncertainty fades from his mind, and then as he gently strokes, just once, and Max practically convulses against him, throwing his head back with a curse, everything else fades, too, and he can't think anything except _Max_ and _God, yes,_ can't see anything but the bliss on Max's face.

 

“This is...this is good? Is my hand too—”

 

“It’s _good,_ ” Max whimpers, and puts his hand down over Charon’s. He'd _known_ it would feel good, but this is just about the best thing he's ever experienced, _period_. It’s so much better than just himself, or…

 

 _Not now._ He can't think about that now. He wants this. He’s wanted nothing _but_ this for what seems like forever, and finally, _finally,_ it's happening. He won't let them ruin this like they ruined everything else.

 

“Can you...can you just…” He thrusts his hips forward, and Charon kisses him, so softly.

 

“What do you wish?” he asks, stroking again, and Max whimpers, much more unhappily. He wishes he didn't have to think about _her_ while _Charon's_ hand is around him. He needs this, more than anything, he needs a better memory, but it's almost too much to handle.

 

“W-wait,” he says, and Charon immediately removes his hand, brow furrowed.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Max nods, slowly. “S-so good...too good. I'm…” He winces, lacing his fingers with Charon’s. “T-tell me I can stop...I need…”

 

“You can,” Charon says, quietly. “You can stop. I can stop. It is up to you.”

 

Max's mouth opens in another groan, and he nods. “Y-yeah. I'm not...you're not…”

 

“You are in control. I only wish to continue if you do.”

 

“I...I do. I want. Yes. P-please touch me. Please?”

 

Charon carefully replaces his hand, and Max whimpers, burying his face in Charon's neck. “P-please,” he mumbles, gently kissing the patch of skin closest to his lips. “I want to forget the bad. M-make me forget?”

 

There's an awful pang in Charon’s chest that overcomes the stimulation, and he nudges Max’s head back to kiss him. “You are far more than what any of them did,” he murmurs, starting to move his hand at a steady pace. “You are good, Max. You are better than you know.”

 

“O-oh?”

 

“Yes. You are not bad. You are not dirty. You are good, Max. You are good. You are so _good.”_

 

Max grabs at Charon's shirt again. “Y-yeah?”

 

“I cannot lie to you, Max. I would not lie. You were too good for that vault, _any_ vault, and you are too good for this wasteland. You are good.”

 

“O- _oh,_ Ch-Charon...please...please, I need…”

 

Charon kisses across Max’s jaw, resisting the urge to nip his ear; he looks so goddamn _beautiful_ like this. “Hmm?”

 

Max moans at the tickle of Charon’s breath over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. “Can you...do that faster? Please? Please, I _need_ it, please.Just—just—”

 

“Ssh,” Charon says, quickening his movements and muffling Max’s cry with his lips. “You are beautiful. Anything you wish.”

 

 _Beautiful._ Charon thinks he is good, and worthy, and _beautiful._ He moans again, teeth scraping over Charon's lip, and Charon lets out a soft sound of his own, rolling his hips just once against Max. The confirmation that Charon is just as aroused makes it all the better, and he whimpers.

 

“I—I— _Charon_ —”

 

Charon grunts, louder, his kisses becoming just a little more desperate, and never mind that he’s _touching_ Max, this is still the most tense he's ever allowed it to become. He's always stopped, always pulled away if it got too heated, but he's _not._

 

Max tilts his head up, freeing his mouth to ask, “Are you okay?”

 

Charon decides it's a perfectly good option to instead start kissing Max’s neck, like that isn't going to be the death of them _both_ , and pants out, “Yes. And you?”

 

“O-oh, God...y-yes. _Yes,_ I’m _so_ fuckin’ okay.”

 

He's pretty sure Charon _purrs_ at that, and it only brings him closer to the edge, and oh, if _this_ feels so unbearably good, he can't even fathom how it might feel if Charon was settled on his hips, rocking down against him—or _under_ him, even—or fucking Christ, _inside_ him _—_

 

“Charon, I'm—oh, G- _God_ , I'm—” He bites Charon's lip a little too hard, and Charon _moans_ into his mouth, so soft and quiet but _there,_ and the sound, the sensation of it—he doesn't stand a chance. He grabs at Charon’s shirt and cries out, and Charon pulls away just enough to _watch,_ letting out another low growling sound in his throat.

 

Max whines his name again, his hand coming down to settle over Charon’s, and then at last he sinks back, panting. “Oh... _oh..._ thank you... _thank_ you…y-yes…”

 

Charon pulls his hand away, absentmindedly cups it against himself, and then gasps out something strangled and incoherent before quickly pulling away, wincing. He struggles to steady himself, to _relax,_ because he's so damn close to falling over and he just can't allow that. He can't let himself lose that kind of control, not yet—no, not _ever._ He can't. He has the choice here, and he won't do it. He doesn't want to, and so he fucking _won't; he's_ in control.

 

Max cracks his eyes open, gazing up at Charon with somehow no less desire than before, and gives a tired smile. “Did you—?”

 

“No,” Charon says, distancing himself just a bit, and Max's giddy smile fades to something more confused.

 

“Oh. Do you want me to—”

 

“ _No._ ”

 

Max quickly nods. “I'm sorry. Okay. That's okay. I just wanted to be sure.”

 

“It is too much,” Charon at last admits, panting. “Max, I—I cannot handle that.”

 

“Okay, and that's okay!” Max says, trying to keep his voice as quiet and soothing as possible. “I don't ever have to. It's your choice. That’s okay.” He’s quiet for a moment, watching as Charon chews on his lip and looks down, still looking so awfully troubled, and then adds, “Maybe another time, okay?”

 

Charon relaxes, letting out a sigh. “Yes,” he says. “Another time.”

 

Max hums, trying not to squirm in discomfort at the unfortunate wetness of his boxers against his over-sensitive skin. “Thank you. That was really, really nice. I...well, thank you. You’re...okay, right?”

 

Charon nods, relieved to feel his heartbeat and breathing starting to return to their normal speeds the longer he refrains from touching Max. “I am pleased,” he says.

 

“Me too,” Max giggles, lifting his hand to bite at his knuckle. “But it wasn’t just ‘cause of that. I promise. I woulda loved you even if it never happened, okay? We never had to do anything. I—”

 

Less hesitant than usual, Charon leans and presses a chaste kiss to Max’s lips.

 

“I know,” he says quietly, too honestly, and Max flushes.

 

“Y-yeah? You trust me?”

 

“I do, Max.”

 

“I trust you, too,” Max says, and Charon takes his hand, lifts it up to his cheek, and closes his eyes.

 

They're a little too invested to turn back now, anyway, aren't they?

 

**x**

 

The bar is unusually empty as the day goes on, and Gob doesn’t hear the end of it. As if it’s _his_ fault that the day is particularly sweltering, or that maybe people have just finally gotten sick of seeing Moriarty’s ugly old face. It’s _not_ his fault. Or...or maybe it is. It probably is. Moriarty thinks so, anyways, but then...Moriarty _always_ blames him.

 

“What in the fuck are ye waitin’ for?” Moriarty growls as he passes on his way to his office, and Gob shrinks, grimacing as he tries to fold his aching fingers around his pen. He’s been nursing a sprain in his wrist for over a week now, because the bastard just keeps grabbing and twisting it, and by lunchtime, after Moriarty has dragged him by it _twice,_ he’s unable to even properly hold a pen to mark off their inventory.

 

It’s Moriarty’s fault, but as usual, _Gob_ is the one who’s going to be punished for it.

 

“Sorry, sir, I was…c-counting, just—” A smack to the back of his head silences him, and he quickly, shakily starts to write. It wouldn’t look any better with his other hand, might even look worse, and he’s really trying, but of course Moriarty isn’t satisfied, grabbing the back of his neck with one hand. It’s an instinctual response by now to go nearly limp, submissive, letting his arms fall to his sides with a whimper.

 

“Can’t ye write anymore?” Moriarty hisses, digging his nails in. “Ye finally losin’ the rest of ye mind, there, zombie?” He uses his free hand to smack the clipboard down, and Gob unwillingly lets out a curse, tucking his arm tightly against his chest.

 

Moriarty shakes him and jerks him around. “What was that?”

 

Gob turns his head away, trembling. “N-nothing, Mr. Moriarty, sir! I just—”

 

“Look at me when ye speak!”

 

Wincing, Gob obeys. “I-I-I said I’m s-sorry. Th-that’s it. That’s all. I-I promise.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Moriarty says, shoving him against the wall and digging an arm into his throat. “What’d I say last time ye talked back, hm? Ye really want me to sew that nasty rotting mouth of yers closed? Did ye think I won’t? I got the thread right in me office, boy!”

 

“P-please, sir!” he gasps, chest heaving as he fights to breathe. “I-I know you will, sir. I’m sorry. I’m n-nothing. I’m worthless, y-yeah? Wh-whatever you think is best, sir. P-please, I’m sorry.”

 

Moriarty clenches his fist, and Gob whimpers and braces himself, and then the door jerks open and Moriarty pulls away, leaning casually against the counter as Gob frantically moves to continue the inventory, panting.

 

“Oh. It’s _these_ two,” Moriarty sneers, and Gob doesn’t dare turn around.

 

“Hey, jackass,” Max says, yanking one of the stools back and sitting down. “Good. I wanna talk to you.”

 

“Oh? I’m flattered, really. But I don’t have time for whatever yer bitchin’ about now. I do have better things to do with me time, ye know?”

 

“I really think you wanna talk to me,” Max says as Gob finally dares a glance over his shoulder at them, and Charon casually stretches his hands out, his knuckles cracking in the process.

 

“Are ye threatenin’ me, boy?”

 

Max rolls his eyes, and then gestures, and Charon sets a large backpack on the counter before Moriarty, scowling.

 

“No. I’m offering.”

 

Moriarty nudges it with an elbow, nose crinkled, and then scoffs. “Offerin’ what? What’s this?”

 

Max gestures at Gob, who stiffens and backs away because he wants absolutely _nothing_ to do with this.

 

“It’s his freedom,” he says, and Gob freezes in place.

 

“Wh-what?” he manages, and Moriarty throws a fork off the counter at him.

 

“You better fuckin’ stop,” Max growls, standing up. “I want Nova, too. Where is she? Take this and give me them. They deserve better than you.”

 

Gob accidentally takes a step forward, the words still not quite sinking in, and Moriarty turns around to give him the same quiet, calm, _angry_ look that he’s seen a million times before just before violence. He quickly cowers, looking down at the floor, trembling and overwhelmed. Max is...he’s trying to pay off his debt? Why the hell would anyone ever do that for him? He’s not worth the amount of caps that would surely cost...and surely, Max doesn’t have that many. Still, to even try...it’s more kindness than he’s received from anyone other than Nova in fifteen years.

 

“You’re trying to buy them?” Moriarty finally laughs, grabbing Gob’s wrist again, and Gob chokes out a sob.

 

“Gob, open it up.”

 

Sniveling, Gob does his best to unzip the bag, and when he can’t, tears in his eyes from the pain, Charon reaches forward and yanks the bag open for him. Several caps tumble out, and Moriarty gawks, that ugly smirk for once wiped off his face.

 

“What the _hell,_ boy?” he says, and doesn’t notice as Charon takes Gob’s hand, trying to inspect his injury. “Where’d ye get all these?”

 

“D-don’t touch me,” Gob still rasps, and Charon takes a step back, startled. Moriarty glances up at Charon, then at Gob as Gob’s wide eyes search his for approval, and then shoves him away.

 

“Don’t you touch him again,” Max spits, “or I’ll _make_ you stop. It’s none of your business where I got them. I don’t have to talk to you anymore. And neither do they.”

 

Moriarty chuckles, rubbing at his beard, and Gob presses himself back against the wall.

 

“I'll have to have them counted...he owes me quite a lot…”

 

“It's enough,” Max snaps. “I don't know how many, but it’s more than I paid for my bodyguard.”

 

“Oh? That can't be why ye want this one! And who’s gonna fuckin’ tend me bar?”

 

“Not my problem. You’re wasting my time,” Max says, and Charon growls, slamming both hands on the counter hard enough that it knocks a bottle off to shatter on the floor.

 

“Heel, dog,” Moriarty says, slowly. “Ye want ‘im? Fine. But this isn't enough for her, too.”

 

“ _What?”_ Max demands, seething. “Are you crazy? That's—you're fuckin’ rich, you idiot! You can drink yourself right to death!”

 

“I've gotta think long-term, lad. Sure this is a pretty price, but most of it’s to pay off this one here. Rest is what Nova makes in a few good weeks, and I'm not gonna let her go for a one time payment.”

 

Max stares at him, disgusted. “You—you— _what?_ Are you fuckin’ serious? I don't—that's—you—I can't even deal with this. Gob, come here. You can stay with us tonight, and then we’ll take you back to Underworld, and—”

 

“N-no,” Gob says quietly. He returns to Moriarty’s side, and shakes his head. “No.”

 

Max blinks a few times, takes a breath to speak, and then sits back, utterly confused. “Hold on, _what?_ What do you mean no?”

 

Gob swallows hard, shifts, and straightens up a little more. “No, I...I want to stay.” He looks at Moriarty. “That...that means...she can go, right?”

 

Moriarty grabs his upper arm tight enough to leave bruises on what skin is left, digging his nails in. “I just...said... _no._ ”

 

Gob cowers, nodding, and reaches up to press the back of his other hand against his mouth. "Yes, y-you did, sir, you did! I'm sorry...m-my fault, sir, my fault…”

 

“ _Gob,”_ Max says, desperately. “Please. I promise, I'll come back for Nova, I'll figure something out—”

 

“I want to stay,” Gob says again, and Moriarty scoffs, stands up, and looms over him.

 

“Do ye think I'm gonna say no to these? Get the _fuck_ out of me face. Yer nothin’ but a fuckin’ liability these days, anyway.”

 

“S- _sir?_ ” Gob breathes out, and is momentarily so relieved he doesn't recall why needs to stay. “I—”  

 

“No, _no,_ ” Max says, shaking his head. “This is—it's enough for her, too. I'm not—they're _both_ leaving with me or I'm taking the caps back!”

 

“Yer shit at barterin’, lad. Take him, or take your caps.”

 

“Fuck you, fuck everything you say, shut up,” Max says, waving his hand and hopping off the stool. “I'm gonna tell the Sheriff. I paid you enough for both of them and you know it!”

 

“Just decided she’s not for sale, actually,” Moriarty replies, and then scowls at Gob, grabbing him by his neck again and shaking him. “What did I just say? Get before I beat the fuckin’—”

 

Charon has his new combat knife up against Moriarty’s back before the man can finish.

 

“Release him,” he orders, smoothly, and Moriarty scoffs.

 

“Of course,” he replies, and puts his hands up. Gob gasps desperately and then stumbles away, blinking hard and in a daze, and then looks up as Max calls his name.

 

“Come on,” Max says, gesturing, and Gob still doesn’t move. He just stares, looking completely shell-shocked, until finally his legs decide to work of their own volition and bring him round the counter to stand at their sides.

 

Charon steps away, sheathing his knife; Moriarty sits down, glaring, but says nothing. It’s silent, and all Gob can hear is the pounding of blood in his head, and then Charon settles a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Come,” he says, and gently pushes Gob to get him walking, leading him out of the bar.


	25. And Hers (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of (past) suicidal thoughts and (past) self-harm, and implied rape/non-con.

As Max goes to speak with the Sheriff, he asks Charon to take Gob back to the house. It’s a stupid idea, because Max is shit with words, and while Charon isn’t _really_ any better, he’s at least _threatening,_ but he obeys. He keeps his hand on Gob’s shoulder, to both comfort and help keep him moving, and then at last sits him down on their couch, retrieving the first-aid kit from the kitchen and getting to one knee in front of him.

 

“Let me,” Charon says, taking his hand, and Gob sits back, wincing when Charon injects a stimpak into his wrist but otherwise remaining expressionless, blankly watching as Charon wraps gauze tight around it.

 

“Is that good?” he asks as he finishes, and Gob manages a little nod, which is more than enough for Charon as he fastens it in place and then intently stares Gob down. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

 

Gob shakes his head, slowly.

 

“Say something.”

 

“I-I’m okay,” he whispers, breath catching, and he wipes at his eyes. “I’m okay, I’m…”

 

Charon straightens up. He does _not_ want to see Gob cry again. Awkwardly, he returns to the backroom, heats up a bowl of leftover stew, and comes back to Gob’s side to find he hasn’t moved at all, tears drying down his cheeks. With a sigh, Charon holds out the bowl, and Gob only briefly looks up at it.

 

“N-no,” he says. “I’m not…”

 

“When did you last eat?”

 

Gob hesitates, brow furrowing, and then shakes his head. “I...I don’t know.”  

 

“Take it,” Charon says, in a tone that gives Gob no room for arguing, and so Gob does, cautiously taking a bite and then immediately starting to shovel it into his mouth. Charon is unsurprised, realizing Gob has probably gone hungry just as many times as him in the last fifteen years, and then he leans against the wall with his arms crossed just as the door is shoved open, Max grumbling under his breath as he enters.

 

Gob flinches at the sudden noise and then gasps softly, moving the bowl to stare wide-eyed down at the small spill he’s made on the couch. “O-oh, oh...I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it—it was an ac—an accident, I’m—”

 

“Gob, relax,” Max insists, offering him a half-hearted smile. “That was my fault. I didn’t mean to scare you. You’re fine.”

 

“N-Nova?” he asks, and he’s yet to even stop shaking; relaxing seems to be out of the question.

 

Max glances at Charon before sighing heavily.  “Simms said he’ll talk to him. Moriarty.”

 

“You did not demand he speak with him _now?_ " Charon says, and Max sighs again, much more exaggerated.  

 

“He is! He said for me not to come, and that he'd come by here later! I’m sure he’ll—”

 

“N-no, no,” Gob interrupts, sputtering, “Colin won’t—the sheriff doesn’t care, he—I should have—you shouldn’t have—”

 

“Gob, stop,” Max says, sitting on the arm-rest of the couch. “I promise. No matter what he says, I’ll get her out of there, okay? I—”

 

“No, you don’t understand,” Gob says, placing the bowl on the table before him and grabbing at his hair. “You don’t, you don’t, you _can’t._ When—when I’m there, he doesn’t hurt her! Not—not as much as he wants to. He t-takes it out on me. When I’m there, she’s okay, and now I’m not, and he’s—he’s g-going to get mad, and she’s going to be the only one there. I-I have to go back, I have to—”

 

He tries to stand up, and Max shakes his head, putting a hand on Gob’s shoulder. “Stop. Sit. You’re not going back. You want me to just—to just let you go get beat again?”

 

“It’s worth it,” Gob breathes, looking at him desperately. “It is. Please, I’ll—just—I’ll get your caps back, okay? B-but I have to go back. I have to. I’m sorry. I just—”

 

“I said _stop,_ ” Max hisses, and Gob shrinks back, raising an arm over his face as if he thinks Max is going to hit him.

 

Max stands and takes a few steps back, carefully holding his hands out. “Sorry. But Gob, please. You can’t do that. I won’t let you. I just won’t. I’ll get Nova out of there, but you are _not_ going back. Okay? _Hey,_ ” he says, demanding an answer, and Gob flinches again and reluctantly nods. He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? Doesn’t Max technically own him, now, too? After paying so much for him...far more than Colin would have ever bothered to waste…

 

 _‘Are ye joking?’_ the man had scoffed at the initial asking price, crossing his arms as he looked down at the terrified ghoul kneeling by his feet. _‘It's a shuffler. I'll give ye three-fifty. Final offer.’_

 

The slaver had growled, muttered an agreement, and then unlocked Gob’s collar, and he had _never_ felt such relief.

 

_‘Only because he ain't stopped cryin’ since we picked him up.’_

 

_‘Well, all he has to do now is run me bar. Think ye can handle that, lad?’_

 

And Gob had nodded, his hands remaining clasped behind his back, because _anything_ sounded better than what they were doing to him. _‘Y-yes, sir...yes, sir. I’ll be good. I promise.’_

 

 _‘Colin Moriarty,’_ he'd said, smirking, taking Gob’s arm more gently than he ever would again and pulling him to his feet.

 

_‘And I’ll be holdin’ ye to that.’_

 

He blinks hard, wringing his hands together, and finally looks up at Max. “Y-yes, sir—uh, er, y-yes…Max. Okay. Yes.”

 

Max's expression softens further at the slip. God, not this again...not _two_ slaves...

 

“Gob...I’m...I’m not...you’re not mine, okay? That’s not what I want. I’m—you can do what you want. Except go back,” he quickly adds. “Would...would you want to go back to Underworld? We can take you there!”

 

“I-I don’t...I don’t know,” Gob says, leaning over slightly. “I feel sick. I don’t know.”

 

Max nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. That’s—that’s my fault. This is...a lot. You don’t have to. You can stay here, okay? You can sleep on the couch. I’ll get you some blankets, I have a ton, okay?” He slips past Charon and up the stairs, and Gob frowns, looking up.

 

“B-but...but I can’t...take your bed, I...I can’t—”

 

“I do not sleep there, anymore,” Charon says quietly.

 

“O-oh, no? Where—”

 

“Okay,” Max says, returning to Gob’s side to give him two blankets. “Is this enough? We need two upstairs, but I can always get another if you're still cold.”

 

Gob stares down at them, over at Charon, and then up at Max. “We?”

 

Max stops. A glance over his shoulder finds Charon with his face scrunched up, like he's incredibly displeased with something, and he realizes what he's let slip. “Y-yeah,” he says, turning back to Gob. “Um...yeah.”

 

“Oh,” Gob says, and smiles. “You're... _oh!_ When did that…?”

 

“A...a couple weeks, I...I dunno…”

 

“Oh!” Gob says again, far quieter, and nods. “That's great. That's really great!”  

 

Max can’t help but take it a bit insincerely, confused, and then suddenly stiffens as he thinks he realizes exactly why Charon had looked like that, why Gob had been so damn touchy with him before—

 

“Were you…?” He gestures uncomfortably between the two of them, and Gob’s eyes go wide.

 

“No!” he splutters, shaking his head. “No, no, there—nothing was—I love Nova!”

 

Max lights up a little, cooing. “You _do?_ Really?”

 

Gob groans softly. “Y-yes...it doesn’t matter...but we were...we were nothing.”

 

Charon tilts his head back, letting it rest against the wall.

 

“Good,” Max says, giggling. “That woulda been kinda weird, right?”

 

Gob doesn’t respond, staring off again, and when Max looks back at Charon, Charon deliberately avoids making eye-contact.

 

“Okay,” he murmurs; if it’s neither of them, it must be _him._ But...Charon had said no one cared out here...

 

He clears his throat, nods, and starts back up the stairs. “Uh...I’m...we’ll talk later, yeah? Simms’s probably gonna come by, and...and have Nova, and we can take you to Underworld. Oh...would she want to come, too?”

 

Gob cups his hands over where his ears should be and shakes his head; it feels like it’s going to explode. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

 

“O-okay,” Max says again, quickly going up before he makes things any worse, and Charon waits a moment before pulling himself off the wall and tilting his head down at Gob.

 

“I—”

 

“Charon, please, I can’t,” Gob says, desperately. “I need...I need to just...please go. Please.”

 

Casting his eyes down to the floor, Charon nods. “As you wish,” he says, leaving Gob alone, and Gob buries his face in his hands and cries.

 

**x**

 

“He’s...gone?”

 

Moriarty scoffs, looking Nova over as she stands at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the banister with white knuckles.

 

“That is what I just said, isn’t it? Then it’s probably what I meant. The little vault shit paid away his debt, and finally got 'im out of me life.”

 

Nova looks down at the floor, shaking her head, absolutely stunned. She still doesn’t understand. She _never_ thought Gob would get out of here, not until the bastard was dead, and now...he’s safe. Charon and Max had finally given him the one thing she never could, no matter how much she felt for him: freedom.

 

She remembers just before Charon had showed up, sitting on the roof beside Gob, sharing her last cigarette; he’d looked so peaceful for just a minute, eyes half-lidded, such a startling change from his constant misery. When Nova had asked what he was thinking about, he’d looked down over the edge and simply said, ‘ _J_ _umping.’_

 

And Nova had wrapped her arms around him, letting him cry into her shoulder, helpless.

 

‘ _You can’t do that. Do you hear me, Gob? You can’t do that. Promise me you won’t. You’d be leaving me alone, and you always said you never would.’_

 

Between hiccuping sobs, Gob had managed to sputter as close to a promise as Nova could hope for, and it was all Nova could do not to let her own tears fall.

 

_‘It’s going to end soon, okay? It will. It has to.’_

 

_‘No. It won’t. It'll never be over.’_

 

She hadn’t had a response then, but now...

 

She’s watched his spirit break into millions of pieces over the past fifteen years, over and over again, has watched his will to live fade into nothingness and been able to do nothing about it, but  _now…_

 

Now Gob is finally gone, and Moriarty will never be able to lay a hand on him again.

 

She giggles, softly, and then outright laughs, and Moriarty cocks a brow at her.

 

“What’s so funny, Nova, dear?”

 

“Nothing, Colin,” she says, and he smirks, sauntering over to her and stroking her cheek.

 

“They tried to have ye, too, ye know,” he says, and she watches him in disinterest. Let him do what he wants to her. Gob is safe, and that's what matters.

 

“But I told ‘em you were too good to let go. Sorry, lass. But...the princess wanted to stay with her king anyways, didn’t she? Hm? What would you do without me?”

 

“What will you do,” she asks instead, “without a slave to beat every time another one of your hairs turn grey?”

 

Moriarty’s smirk disappears, and there’s a tense moment of silent, resentful eye-contact before he steps back, chuckles, and then backhands her so hard she falls to the floor.

 

“Fuck,” she mutters, spitting, and cups her hand over her mouth as blood starts dripping from it.

 

“Watch yer pretty mouth, lass,” Moriarty says, kneeling down beside her and grabbing her hair, yanking her head back. “I don’t have him anymore. Shouldn’t that make ye think a little more before mouthin’ off to me?”

 

“Bruises turn people off,” she says, and he hums, looking her over.  

 

“I’m sure...with some people. Good thing I’ve got enough caps to cover you while they fade. In fact…” He releases her, stands, and goes to lock the door, crossing his arms as he turns and grins back at her.

 

“I think I've got just enough to cover closin’ early tonight."

**x**

 

Night falls, and still Simms doesn’t come around. It’s likely he won’t, Charon mentions, and Max resolves to take Charon with him in the morning, trying to make Gob feel better. It seems to work, or else Gob is too tired to fight about it, and he finally falls asleep, curled up in the blankets in the corner of the couch.

 

“I’m gonna get her tomorrow,” Max says as he lays down beside Charon, scowling, and Charon doesn’t move closer.

 

“You’re mad at me.”

 

Charon continues looking up at the ceiling, arm tucked behind his head, and Max rolls his eyes, turning his back to Charon and settling down on the edge. “Fine. I don’t even care. You’ll see. Just wait. Then you’ll know I meant it.”

 

He sniffles, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and shuts his eyes. “You said you trusted me.”

 

There’s no response for a few seconds, and then Max hears Charon sigh, feels the bed shift as Charon moves to wrap his arm around him. Max hums happily, twining their fingers together, and says, “I promise, okay? I do.”

 

Charon is still quiet, and Max sighs. “Okay.”

 

It’s sometime later that Charon hears noises coming from downstairs, and he frowns, very carefully untangling himself from Max and then covering him up again. Then, when he’s sure Max is still asleep, he starts down the stairs just as the front door closes with a soft click.

 

And of course, Gob is gone.

 

Sighing, Charon opens it and steps outside, and Gob, only a few feet away, gasps and staggers, whirling around to stare at him.

 

“You are very loud,” Charon says, crossing his arms, and Gob ducks his head, sniveling.

 

“Charon, _please,_ let me—”

 

“No. Go back inside.”

 

Gob moves closer, taking his hands. “Charon, he’s going to hurt her. He might have already. Please. Help me. Please?”

 

“Help you?”

 

“Y-yes. I just...just...I need her to be safe. Please. Just come.”

 

“And what are you planning on doing, Gob?”

 

Gob’s mouth opens, then closes again, wordless. He whimpers softly, and shrugs, and chokes out, “I don’t know. I just...I need to make sure she’s okay. You have to understand. He’s just like Ahzrukhal, Charon, okay? You have to get it. Please?”

 

Charon swallows hard, briefly looks away, and then nods. “Okay.”

 

Gob’s eyes light up like Charon has never seen before. “Y-yeah? Okay?”

 

Charon takes a deep breath and finally squeezes Gob’s hands. “Yes. Go. Carefully.”

 

“Thank you, thank you,” Gob says, kissing his hands, and then rushes off. Charon shifts, recovering, and then leans inside to grab his shotgun, only catching up as Gob struggles at the door to the saloon, twisting his key as silently as he can.

 

“Stay here,” Gob says, as if Charon isn’t a hundred times more stealthy. Charon sighs, gesturing, and Gob slips into the darkness on the other side of the door, shutting it behind him.

 

Charon isn’t quite comfortable letting him go alone, but he gives it a minute anyway, expecting Gob to come back. He’d just needed to _check_ on Nova, right?

 

Another minute passes, and still nothing. Charon glances around, anxiously, and then quietly pushes his way inside just before he hears a shout. He stumbles as his vision doesn’t immediately adjust, hands out as he moves towards the stairs. There’s scrabbling upstairs, and another muffled yelp, and Charon takes just a few steps up before suddenly something—no, not something, _Gob—_ tumbles down and crashes into him, knocking him back and to the floor, right onto his shotgun. Something cracks, although he's not sure if it was the gun or _him,_ and he writhes, shoving the weapon out from underneath him and then reaching up to wrap his arm around Gob, slumped motionless and too quiet atop him.

 

“Gob,” he mumbles, and then startles as a lantern lights at the top of the stairs, immersing them in a dull orange glow.

 

“Shoulda fuckin’ known,” Moriarty spits, and Charon cups the back of Gob’s head then brings his hand up, eyes wide as he realizes it’s coated in blood.

 

“ _Gob,_ ” he says again, louder, and sits up, cradling Gob in his arms. Gob still doesn’t move, his breaths shallow and ragged, and Charon grabs out for anything to help him back to his feet, his knee flaring with pain as he extends it.

 

There’s a click, and Charon looks up to find Moriarty pointing his pistol at them both, one hand grabbing at the banister to support himself.

 

“Ye broke in,” Moriarty says, his words slurring together. “I didn’t know who it was. Just protectin’ me business.”

 

“No,” Charon says, reaching for his gun, and Moriarty waves the pistol.

 

“Don’t ye fuckin’ try...anythin’. I’ll shoot. I’ll...I will…”

 

“You _b-bastard,”_ Nova curses, appearing from one of the rooms, looking barely able to stand on her feet. “What have you _done?_ ”

 

Moriarty rolls his eyes, starting down the stairs towards. “Nova, love, yer high. Ye don’t know what yer seein’. Why don’t ye go back to bed, now, hm?”

 

“You just— _Gob_ —”

 

"It's just a damn corpse! He can't get any deader!"

 

Charon drags himself to the side, still clutching Gob tightly, and manages to get to his feet before Moriarty gets to the floor.

 

“Back off,” he growls, “I am leaving.”

 

“Yer not,” Moriaty says, and aims directly at Charon’s head. "Shouldn't'a fuckin' been threatenin' me..."

 

“Colin!” Nova yells, stumbling down the stairs. Moriarty so briefly moves his attention to her, and Charon shifts Gob to one arm and strikes the gun out of the man’s hand.

 

Moriarty swears, stumbles, and then lunges at him, shoving him back against the wall. “Ye stupid fuckin’—” he seethes, wrapping his hands around Charon’s neck, and Charon has no choice but to let Gob slide back to the ground, grabbing for his knife and slicing it across Moriarty’s arm.

 

“Stop, stop it!” Nova cries, yanking at Moriarty’s hair, and Moriarty turns to punch her, watching carelessly as she falls, weeping.

 

Charon swears, jabbing the knife forward and straight into Moriarty’s back. Moriarty gasps, staggering forward, and then falls to his knees.

 

Nova has crawled over to Gob and protectively folded herself over him when Charon looks back down at them, and as he kneels down with every intention of carrying them both out of here if he has to, of leaving Moriarty to bleed out or fix himself, Moriarty drags himself forward with his own knife, slashing it across Charon’s arm.

 

“Bastard!” Charon growls, knocking the man back to the floor and then pinning him there with his weight, squeezing his throat with both hands.

 

“Charon!” Nova exclaims, and Charon ignores her, baring his teeth as Moriarty chokes, struggles, and then he realizes just a second too late that Nova had been trying to warn him as Moriarty’s hand closes around a bottle on the floor, and he can't raise his arm fast enough to block the man from smashing it over his head.

 

The world blurs and tilts, and he doesn't remember how he suddenly got onto his back, grimacing as Moriarty grabs for his throat with one hand, keeping his knife pointed at Nova with the other, and then—

 

A single gunshot rings out, and Moriarty falls back with an agonized screech, gurgles, and then doesn’t move again.

 

“Shit,” Max says, and drops to Charon’s side. “God, why didn't you just stay home?"

 

Charon really tries to answer, tries to ask how the _fuck_ Max had known he was here, but it turns out to be a hell of a lot easier to just let his eyes close.

 

Max groans and cups a hand against the gash in Charon’s head, trying to slow the bleeding, and turns his attention to Nova as she starts to cry, cradling Gob against her.

 

“G-Gobbie...please...Gob?"

 

With no other solution quick enough, Max pulls his shirt off and slices it in half, tying one half tightly around Charon’s head and then handing the other to Nova for her to do the same with Gob. He then gets to his feet, stumbling back as three different settlers crowd into the doorway, guns out, staring at the half-naked vault-dweller standing in a blood-covered room.

 

“Who’s shooting? The fuck is going on?”

 

“Get the doctor, please!” Nova wails, and struggles to stand up. “Please, he’s hurt, he’s hurt, please…”

 

One of the settlers darts away, and the other two exchange glances before overlooking Gob entirely and looking to Max.

 

“Where’s Moriar—”

 

Max has Charon’s shotgun, much more threatening than his 10mm, in his grip and aimed at them before they can finish, scowling. “Pick the fucking ghoul up, _now,_ and get him to the fucking doctor, or I’ll kill you, too.”

 

“Jesus, he’s _dead?”_ one demands, eyes wide, as the second reluctantly reaches down and gathers Gob in his arms, grimacing.

 

Shoving his way past that man as he heads down to the clinic with Nova trailing close behind, Simms adjusts his coat and stares down at them.

 

“What the hell did you do, now, boy?” he breathes, and Max moves the shotgun to point at him.

 

“Keeping people safe. _Y-your_ job. I’m doing your job! 'Cause you won't! You haven't been! N-now, now, I need—I need you to get him down to Church, too.” He gestures back at Charon, and Simms holds his hands out.

 

“Alright. No need for the gun, okay? You can—”

 

“I k-killed him,” Max whimpers. “ _I_ killed him. It was me. Don’t...don’t kill them. Don’t let them get hurt, please. Please? He was hurting Charon. He hurt Gob. He hurt Nova. Please, don’t...don’t hurt them. I’ll leave. I promise, I’ll leave, but you can’t blame them.”

 

Simms kneels beside Charon, wrapping one of Charon’s arms around his shoulders and starting to haul him up. “I can’t make any judgement yet, Max. I don’t know what happened. Put the gun down, and we can talk down at the clinic. Ain't no need for anyone else to get hurt. Help me out, will you?” he asks the settler still standing by the door, and the man nods, taking Charon’s other arm just as Charon groans, blinking his eyes open but making no real effort to walk on his own.

 

“Max,” he finally mutters, dragging his feet on the steps up to the clinic, and Max sighs in relief.

 

“I’m okay,” he says as they deposit Charon onto the bed beside where Church is already tending to Gob. “You’re okay. I...I don't know if Gob is...I don't..."

 

Charon looks up at him, and then his bleary eyes widen as they travel down his body, attention caught by—

 

Max gasps and quickly turns, shrugging Charon's shotgun off his back and looking for something to cover up with, and instead finds Simms, Church, _and_ Nova staring at him.

 

In the light of the candles scattered around the rooms, every self-inflicted scar above his waistline can be seen.

 

And there are far too many of them.

 

Max wraps his arms around himself, tries desperately to cover his hips and his arms, and Simms finally grabs the sheet off another bed and holds it out.

 

Grabbing it and tightly holding it around his shoulders, Max can only stare at the floor, utterly ashamed and trembling as tears fall down his cheeks.

 

“Well,” Simms says finally, quietly, “Max. This...this is...a real fuckin' shit show you’ve caused, you know that? Jesus. _Jesus_."

 

Max nods, using the sheet to wipe at his eyes, and Simms clears his throat.

 

“We’ll talk in the mornin’. I gotta make sure the whole town don’t panic. Gotta get that mess cleaned up... _fuck,_ Max. This ain't over. This is going to have consequences, do you understand that?”

 

“He understands,” Nova says, settling her glare on the man, and the Sheriff murmurs something under his breath before turning and leaving.

 

“This is gonna be a hell of a lot of caps, if he lives,” Church says, and Max slumps to his knees and covers his face.

 

Carefully, Nova kneels down beside him, touching his shoulder, and Max immediately latches onto her, crying as she gently rocks him.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

 

"It's okay," she whispers, petting his hair, "it's okay. You're okay, Max. It's _not_ your fault. Gob...he's gonna be fine. He has to be. Charon is okay. It's okay. It's over. It's over, okay? It is."

 

_It's over._

 

**x**

 

_"Hey-a, kiddies; this is Three-Dog here again. I know most’a you’ve probably heard by now through your own friends, but let me say it for everyone: there’s a big ol’ gang a’ slavers that’ve been travelin’ around together, roundin’ up all the runaways they can find. Rumor is, those runaways have been gatherin’, plannin’, but I barely get any news about that. Probably for the best, right? Who knows who’s listenin’ in on this. Anyway, be careful, kiddies. Stay safe by stayin’ far away from them. They’re from Paradise Falls, and anyone from there ain’t nobody to be fuckin’ around with. This has been Three-Dog, bringin’ you the news, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> always crying on [tumblr](https://andneverlookback.tumblr.com/)


	26. Just Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Talk of (past) self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and some NSFW-ish-ness. ;P

When he wakes up cradled in Charon's arms, Gob is absolutely sure he's dreaming, or maybe dead; he doesn't think he would mind, really, if this is what the afterlife is. His vision is blurred, and he tries his best to focus, but he's so goddamn _tired,_ and everything hurts, and he can't think straight or even really remember what happened, and he's only even sure it's Charon because of that voice, deep and crackling and familiar.

 

“...Gob?”

 

Gob shifts a little, nuzzling his face against Charon's chest, and sighs. “Mm…”

 

“You are awake.” The breath whooshes out of Charon, and he leans back against something, holding Gob a little tighter. “We were not sure if you would…the doctor could do nothing more for you. I have been standing here for two hours.”

 

“Wh-where? What?” Gob mumbles, frowning, and struggles to raise his head. “What's...my head…”

 

“You were badly injured,” Charon says, very quietly. “But you will be okay. Nova is okay, and I am okay.”

 

“Charon…?”

 

“Yes?”

 

Gob sighs, curling his hands under his chin and closing his eyes again. “Warm.”

 

“...Yes. That is good.”

 

“Tired…”  

 

“Then sleep.”

 

“Please stay.”

 

“I will stay here until you are healed.”

 

Gob grips Charon's shirt with one hand, breathing in deeply. “No. St-stay. Please. D-don't leave me again. I need you.”

 

He feels Charon stiffen, hears him push out a long exhale.

 

“Sleep,” Charon says, and Gob doesn't fight it.

 

And when he wakes up, back in the clinic bed with Nova sitting beside him, he doesn't remember a thing, groaning as he shields his eyes from the sunlight streaming in.

 

“Oh, God...N-Nova?”

 

“I'm here, sweetie,” she murmurs, relieved, squeezing his hand and leaning to kiss him on the cheek. “Oh, thank God. You're okay. I was so worried…”

 

“What...what happened?”

 

“Oh, your poor head,” she says, rubbing his temple, and he leans into her touch.

 

“You don't remember?”

 

Gob grimaces, struggling with the cloudy haze of his thoughts. “Remember…? I remember…” His heart skips a beat. “He was in your bed. No. Nova, please, tell me he didn't—”

 

She gives a sad, tearful smile, and Gob moans, bringing her hand to his cheek.

 

“No...no, Nova, _no._ I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…I tried...to..."

 

“It’s okay, now,” she says, softly, and he sniffles.

 

“How can it be okay? Oh, God, I'm so sorry...please...b-but...but Max got you out, yes? Please...say yes.”

 

“Honey,” Nova says, carefully, “Max killed him. Colin is dead.”

 

Gob blinks. That...that can't be right. He can't possibly have just heard that right. "Wh-what?" he manages, choked, and Nova nods, running her fingers through his hair.

 

"Yes. He's dead. He's dead and we're safe. You're safe."

 

Gob whimpers, and Nova leans over, kissing his cheek and forehead and then burying her face in his shoulder, sniveling. "It's all okay, now. It's okay."

 

"He's gone? He's...h-he's _gone?_ " Gob breathes, and then starts to cry, wrapping his arms around Nova and weeping into her hair. "R-really?"

 

"Yes, my darling," she says, tearfully. "Yes. Oh, Gobbie. My love. My love. You're safe. Everything's going to be okay now."

 

**x**

 

When Charon returns from the clinic, from holding Gob beside the atom bomb for _hours_ until it was finally concluded that he would be okay, he finds Max has locked himself inside his room, refusing to acknowledge Charon when he knocks.

 

He sits outside the door, uncertain what else to do, and waits. It’s possible, he supposes, that Max is just asleep; after all, what has _he_ done wrong? He can’t think of anything that would cause Max to shut him out, but after another few hours, in which he definitely hears movement from inside but is offered no explanation at all, he despondently retires downstairs to clean his gun. There’s a crack in the wood from the impact of him falling so hard on it and a deep score that no amount of buffing can seem to clean away, but thankfully it isn’t broken; and after having it for upwards of seventy years, that’s probably a miracle.

 

He hears Max come out later that night for the bathroom, and he darts upstairs to catch him before he can disappear again.

 

“What do you want?” Max asks, coldly, and Charon takes a step back, suddenly awkward under the unusually hostile tone.

 

“What...did the Sheriff say?”

 

Max shrugs with one shoulder, and still won’t look up from the floor. “That I shouldn’t have murdered him.”

 

“And you?”

 

“I said it’s not my fault he kept bleeding. I didn’t know he’d die. I was just protecting all of you.”

 

Charon leans against the bedroom door, hoping it keeps Max from trying to escape before he’s gotten his answers. “How did you know we were there?”

 

“Because,” Max says, crossing his arms, “you’re stupid, and Gob’s even stupider, and I felt you get up and not come back, so I followed you. I thought he’d do somethin’ like that, but I also thought you’d _stop_ him. But you do whatever he wants, and I shoulda realized. So, stupid me, I guess.”

 

“ _Max—_ ”

 

“No. He deserved to die, but I didn’t want to kill him. I wasn’t going to. But then you let him kick your ass, and then I had to.”

 

Charon scowls, offended. “That was not intentional, Max. I—"

 

“It’s over now, okay? It’s fine. Goodnight.” He gestures for Charon to move, then sighs loudly when Charon does not. “Please move. I’m tired.”

 

“And...you wish me not to be with you?”

 

“Yeah. I want to be alone tonight. It’s my room. I’m allowed. _Move,_ ” he orders, and Charon steps aside with a huff, unable to get another word in before Max shuts the door.

 

“I did not mean for this to happen,” Charon says, and then shakes his head at the lack of response.

 

It remains the most words spoken between them for nearly three days, in which Max decides to avoid him entirely, only coming down for food and beer and muttering half-hearted greetings in Charon’s general direction before going back upstairs. Afraid of making it worse, Charon doesn’t leave the house, doesn’t visit Gob even when Nova comes to ask him to; he just repetitively cleans his armor until it shines, repairs it all that he can, tidies up the house, and eventually resigns himself to sulking on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the walls. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve it, but this punishment is somehow even more unpleasant than most he can recall; he _misses_ Max, desperately, and aches for the affection that Max is refusing to give him for _no fucking reason._ Max can't just...can't just do everything he has and then take it away. It isn't  _fair._

 

It can’t be because of Moriarty, can it? Really? He’s so terribly upset over the death of a man who deserved it just as much as Ahzrukhal? He hadn’t been angry at Charon for that, so why this? It doesn’t make any goddamn sense, and if Max would just _talk_ to him, maybe Charon would understand, but he’s back to drinking himself into a stupor and ignoring Charon’s existence, and Charon grows so restless and agitated over it that eventually he moves to stand on the stairs to block Max from going back up them.

 

“Please don’t,” Max mumbles, and Charon is so damn confused; with his voice so low and hoarse, Max doesn’t sound angry anymore, he sounds _sad._

 

“Why are you displeased with me?”

 

Max rubs at his eyes with one hand, brings his beer up to take a drink with the other. “‘m not. Please move.”

 

Charon gives a helpless little gesture with his hands. “You must be. You _must_ be. Why else—”

 

“Charon...please. Just…”

 

“No. You are unhappy with me, and I wish only to please you, but I am—I am uncertain what I have done wrong, and I cannot—”

 

“I'm not unhappy with _you,"_ Max interrupts with a heavy sigh, and then sits at Charon’s feet, wrapping an arm around his knees. “I'm just fucking unhappy.”

 

Charon stays quiet for a brief while, thoughtful. “You are unhappy with where we are?”

 

“No...it’s...it’s personal."

 

“You have involved me with your personal life,” Charon says, and Max closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.

 

“Yeah. Guess I did.”

 

Awkwardly wringing his hands together, Charon clears his throat. He knows he shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable speaking out, but it still takes another minute before he can bring himself to continue. “May I at least know what I have done wrong?”

 

Max groans. “God, just...sit.”

 

Charon immediately obeys, and Max reaches up to touch Charon's cheek, then pet his hair.

 

“You just...you didn't do anything wrong. Okay?”

 

Charon nods, distracted, bending further over and leaning against Max’s hand. So terribly desperate for any contact he can get, he reaches up and grabs Max’s wrist to hold him there, and Max sucks in a breath through his teeth and yanks away, looking down. Charon blinks, watches him pull his sleeves over his hands, and then sits back.

 

“It is because of what I saw at the clinic,” he says, finally understanding. Max’s face twists up like he’s about to start crying, and then he sniffles and shakes his head, looking away.

 

“No. You had a concussion. Y-you didn’t see anything.”

 

Charon sighs, closing his eyes. How could he not have drawn the conclusion sooner? He’d nearly forgotten until now, been so preoccupied with himself, with it being _his_ fault, that he never considered there could be another reason. He had definitely had a concussion, and most of that night is blurred and hard to remember, and he feels absolutely terrible that he’s only now thinking of it.

 

“If it is what you wish of me,” he finally says, dipping his head in acknowledgement, “but I—”

 

“Charon,” Max chokes out, “please, I don’t—I don’t wanna talk about it. Please? Please. Please...can’t you just pretend?”

 

“I will do whatever you wish me to,” Charon replies, and Max nods.

 

“Good. Good. Then just—”

 

“But I wish to know why you have decided to end us over it.”

 

Max trembles, and then grabs onto Charon’s leg and pushes his face against it. “I didn’t wanna,” he sobs, “I didn’t. I had to. You want to. You can’t want this anymore. You just can’t.”

 

Charon is too quick to try and pull Max closer, and Max swats his hands away, standing up and stumbling his way over to the couch, curling up on it. “Please don’t...please...just...just…”

 

“Max,” Charon says, standing but remaining where he is. “Why? Why do you believe _I_ wish to stop this?”

 

“Because,” Max mutters, and after a moment Charon realizes that's all he's going to say.

 

“That is not an answer.”

 

“Because I'm fuckin’ crazy!” Max spits out, and Charon frowns.

 

“What?”

 

Max pulls one of the blankets over his head and shakes it. “You saw. Everyone saw. It's not fair. You weren’t supposed to. You were never, ever supposed to. I didn't want you to. But you did. And that—that’s why.”

 

“I do not understand—”

 

“You wouldn’t. No one does. I just don’t wanna talk about it.”

 

“I do not understand why you believe that I—what _do_ you believe? That I no longer wish to be close to you?”

 

“Uh, _yeah,_ ” Max says. “That’s exactly what I think. And it’s true.”

 

Charon takes a few steps closer, sits down heavily in the chair across from the couch. “You have been avoiding me because you believed it is what I want?”

 

It’s quiet for a long minute, and then at last Max sighs and mutters, “Yeah. I guess. I don’t know. Yeah.”

 

“...Why would I want that?”

 

“Why _wouldn’t_ you? I…” He sniffles, yanks the blanket off, and wipes his nose across his sleeve. He avoids eye-contact, visibly trying to compose himself, and then glances over at Charon and says, almost too quietly to hear, “I...I did it to myself.”

 

Charon hesitates, brow furrowing. “Yes…” he says. “I know.”

 

“Okay? And?”

 

“Forgive me, but...I am very confused.”

 

“Stop acting dumb, you dick!” Max suddenly shouts, balling up the blanket and throwing it at him. “Stop it! I’m crazy and gross and you fucking hate me, so stop acting like you don’t!”

 

“But I do not,” Charon protests, sitting forward and clasping his hands together. “Max, I do not think I could ever hate you. I...have feelings for you. And you know this. Your scars do not change that.”

 

“Charon,” Max says, and starts crying again despite his attempts to hold it back. “They’re not—they’re not just _scars._ I—I hurt myself. I’m—I’m fucking—you don’t understand.”

 

“I do understand.”

 

Max scoffs. “You fuckin’ _don’t._ You just can’t. I did it. I _did_ it. Okay? I—that’s not even all of them. They’re fucking everywhere, okay? You weren’t supposed to...you just…”

 

“You have been pursuing sexual relations with me,” Charon says. “Did you not think it would eventually come up?”

 

“It was a bad idea,” Max mutters, shaking his head. “It was. I was pretending I was a normal fuckin’ person, when I’m not. I’m sorry. We just can’t.” He rubs his eyes, looks around for where he left his beer, and then shrinks slightly as Charon stands up.

 

“May I come closer?”

 

Max looks him over, swallowing hard, and then focuses back down on his lap. “I-I guess. Do what you want.”

 

Charon kneels beside the couch, shifting in what seems to Max like discomfort. It just confirms his fears, he thinks, until Charon takes a deep breath and takes Max’s hand.

 

“What—” Max starts to pull away, but Charon keeps hold of him.

 

“I know that you saw most, if not all of me, while at the outpost,” he says, quietly, pursing his lips, “so you are surely aware of what I look like...of my own disfigurements.”

 

“From fighting,” Max says. “From your stupid fucking employers. Not yourself. You didn’t choose to look how you do. Mine are my fault.”

 

“Most were unavoidable, yes,” Charon agrees, and then carefully lifts his shirt up a bit, placing Max’s palm flat against an awful, jagged scar over his belly. “Most.”

 

Max frowns, looking up at him. “What does that mean?”

 

Charon sighs, closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, searching Max’s face for something Max doesn’t know, he looks completely exhausted.

 

“I am so very old, Max,” he says at length, releasing Max’s hand to brace himself against the couch as if he’s having trouble staying upright. “Do you truly believe I have never felt as you did?”

 

Max’s breath catches, and he jerks his hand away. Charon sits back, slumping a little, and casts his gaze to the side.

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“Before Underworld,” he murmurs, “was...in a way...my worst employer. And it is certainly not that I never felt it before, but...with h—them, it was all that I felt. It was all that I thought about. And…” He trails off for a moment, biting his lip. “And once, I may have purposely failed to protect myself, in hopes that I would be spared the pain of continuing on like that.”

 

“ _Charon,_ ” Max says, tearfully, and Charon tilts his head back to look at the ceiling, decides not to  _also_ mention how many times he's shoved an already unloaded gun to his head over his life, clicking it again and again and hoping that somehow it would still work, or held a knife to his neck and fought against his contract's resistance to just  _do it,_ or every time he broke down in tears afterwards because he was _still fucking breathing_ and that was worse than anything. 

 

“It does not matter. I only wish you to know…that I do not think...Max, I could never find you ugly. I do not blame you for anything you may have done.”

 

“I’m...it’s not just…” Max whimpers, and then rolls his sleeve up, sticking it out for Charon to see. “There’s not just _one_. They’re—they’re everywhere, and—”

 

So carefully, Charon takes his hand, squeezes it, and leans over, pressing his lips to Max’s wrist. Max inhales sharply, startled, and Charon trails kisses up and over all the scars visible.

 

“N-no, _no,_ you can’t—” Max chokes, pulling away and trembling. “Y-you can’t do that, you...why would you—”

 

“You are beautiful, Max,” Charon says, looking up with more affection than Max has ever seen him express. “You are beautiful and nothing could make it otherwise.”

 

Max shakes his head, pressing his hands to his mouth, trying to keep himself from breaking down further. Charon can’t help but think how similar it is to when he had sat there, crying harder than he had allowed himself to in decades, maybe a century, and how helpless Max must have felt. He pulls himself up onto the couch beside Max and stays silent, offering his shoulder, and Max quickly latches onto his side, pressing his face against his shirt and crying.

 

“No, no,” he mumbles between sobs, “you can’t...think that. They said…they said...they said how ugly they were. ‘Cause—’cause after I tried to die, everyone somehow just—just _knew,_ because someone couldn’t keep their fuckin’ mouth shut, and I didn’t—no one was _ever_ supposed to know!”

 

“Everything they said to you was wrong, Max,” Charon says, grabbing his hand and squeezing. “They were liars. They were evil.”

 

Max snivels, pulling Charon’s hand up to his cheek. “They said no one c-could ever love me with them. They—they said—”

 

“I could,” Charon interrupts, cupping Max’s other cheek and bringing his chin up to meet their eyes. “I would.”

 

Hope lights up Max’s eyes, and he chokes out a heartbroken giggle. “Y-you still...you still wanna try?”

 

“I do,” Charon says, leaning to press a soft kiss to Max’s lips, and Max closes his eyes, his hand moving to cover Charon’s scar again.

 

“I-I love...you,” he whimpers. “Don’t...ever feel like that again, please. I’ll...I’d do anything for you, Charon. Anything.”

 

“And I you,” Charon says, running his fingers through Max’s hair. “Anything. My only wish is to make you happy.”

 

“Want you to be happy, too. O-okay? I’ll try. I will.”

 

“You do make me...feel."

 

Max wipes his eyes again, sniffling. “F-feel happy?”

 

“I do not know,” Charon admits, “but it is...it is good. I cannot recall ever feeling so in my life.”

 

Max wraps his arms around him, moving half into his lap in his attempt to get closer, burying his face in Charon’s chest when Charon tenses but doesn’t push him away. “I-I’m sorry...I made you feel bad since Moriarty. I...I thought it was what was best. I thought it was what you wanted.”

 

“That is not what I want, Max,” Charon says, kissing his head. “That is _not_ what I want.”

 

Max closes his eyes and shifts a little, and then stands up, his fingers curling at the bottom of his shirt. “Do you…” He takes a breath and swallows hard. “Do you want to see?”

 

“To...see?”

 

“Me,” Max says, nodding. “All of me.”

 

Charon sits back, biting his lip, and tries to ignore the heat the possibility of seeing all of Max sends through him. “Only...if that is what you wish. I do not want you to be uncomfortable.”

 

“I...I think I have to, now,” he says, pursing his lips, and Charon reaches for his hands.

 

“No. You do not have to do anything, Max.”

 

“I mean... _I_ need to,” Max says, carefully pulling his hands free. "I  _need_  to. O...okay? Is that...is that okay? Please? I...I need to.”

 

Charon gives a single nod, resting his hands on his knees. “You may do as you wish.”

 

Max takes a long, deep breath. “I...I trust you,” he says, and then carefully pulls his shirt up and over his head. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, dropping the fabric to the floor, and then steps out of his pants, leaving himself only in his underwear—and then pulls those down, too, covering himself with his hands but allowing the scars on his thighs to be seen.

 

Charon doesn’t say anything, and eventually Max cracks his eyes open to find Charon looking at him; looking at his  _face,_ not his body.

 

He squirms a little; had Charon already looked and seen too much? He knows he isn’t pretty to look at, anymore. He could have been, once. He could have been pretty, he could have been attractive, if he hadn’t been so fucking stupid instead. Tears form in the corners of his eyes again, and he sniffs, looking away.

 

“W-what? What? It’s...I know, it’s bad, I’m...I’m sorry.”

 

“You are beautiful,” is all Charon says, yet again, and his voice is so much softer than usual. “There is nothing bad about you.”

 

“But...they’re...they’re fuckin’ gross,” Max protests, and Charon snickers, glancing down at himself and then tilting his head.

 

“You’re not gross,” Max adds. “I mean...they’re...they just...they look bad! You know they do!”

 

Charon glances over him again, expression remaining unreadable, and then meets Max’s eyes again. “They look like scars,” he says, and Max lowers his head.

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Do you believe you are the only one who has them?”

 

Max frowns, squirming, and then shakes his head. “N-no...no, I don’t...I just…”

 

“They do not take from your beauty,” Charon says. “They…” He purses his lips. “May I ask a...rather invasive question?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, go ‘head.”

 

“Do you...do this still?”

 

“No!” Max exclaims, and then backs a step away. “No, no, I...not for...not for...um...a while. A-almost a year. And...and not like _this_ , not bad, since...since before I was eighteen.”

 

Charon nods. “Good,” he says. “Then they show what you have overcome. What you have survived.”

 

Max’s eyes go wide at that, and he stares at Charon, then down at himself, incredulous. Is that...true? Could they, could something so goddamn ugly, possibly be seen as something _positive?_ “R-really? That’s...really? You think that?”

 

Charon leans back a little, offering Max one of the blankets to cover up with. “Yes. I do. And you are…very brave, very strong, to show me them.”

 

Max blushes, reaching up to bite at a nail, and oh, _shit,_ Charon realizes his mistake much too late, casting his gaze up to the ceiling. “Ah...you are…still indecent.”

 

“Brave?” Max whispers, taking a step closer, and Charon clears his throat, refusing to look.

 

“You are...unclothed. You are…”

 

“Should I…?” Max asks, and then winces, shameful, fumbling for his clothes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, this was weird, I didn’t—”

 

Charon reaches out for his arm, grabs it to still him, and meets his eyes again. “You are beautiful. I just wish...you to be comfortable.”

 

“Are you uncomfortable?”

 

Charon’s eyes dart down Max’s body and then off to the side again, shifting. “A bit.”

 

“Should I put them back on?”

 

Awkwardly, Charon scratches at his chin and then clears his throat again. “If you think that would be best.”

 

Max giggles a little, and takes another step closer, and Charon presses himself back against the couch, taking a deep breath.

 

“Am I...am I...attractive, to you?” Max asks, brows knit together. “Not...not just...I mean...do you feel for me? Am I...am I, like...do I make you wanna kiss me? And...and other things?”

 

“Yes,” Charon mutters, crossing his arms. “And other things.”

 

Max nudges his knee against Charon’s, putting both hands at his sides. “L-like...what?” When Charon doesn’t respond, doesn’t look back, Max tilts his head. “Why won’t you look at me?”

 

“You are attractive,” Charon says, “and it bothers me.”

 

"Really?" Max asks, giggling. "I think you're blushing." He leans over a little, teasingly, and Charon shifts again. 

 

“Can I…" Max pauses, licking his lips, and Charon tracks the movement with his eyes and swallows hard. "Can we kiss with me like this? Or...should I get dressed again? I don’t...it’s probably too much. I don’t wanna—”

 

Without letting him finish, Charon jerks forward and grabs Max around his waist, tugs him into a kiss, and Max squeaks, settling his hands on Charon’s shoulders.

 

“O-oh...oh, that’s...this feels…” he pants softly, and then pulls back to look at Charon. “Do you think...do you think you’d ever be okay enough to...t-to let me see you?”

 

That freezes Charon completely, and even his thumb, which had been rubbing a tiny circle into Max’s hip, stops moving. He presses his tongue against his cheek, then looks away. As brave as Max had been...is there really any way he could ever do the same? That he could ever feel safe enough to?

 

“You have already seen me,” he says, and Max nods.

 

“Y-yeah, but...to help you. Not...not like _this._ Not for...not for this, you know? It’s different. I wasn’t...I wasn’t really looking.”

 

“That is probably for the best,” Charon scoffs, and Max gently, playfully smacks his arm.

 

“Hey. I already think you’re attractive, and beautiful, and I saw enough. I wouldn’t just change my mind...which...oh.” He sighs, resting his cheek against Charon’s shoulder. “I guess I shouldn’t have thought you would, either.”

 

“I understand,” Charon says, shaking his head, and then finally sighs. “Max…I told you, I do not wish to do everything yet.”

 

Max tries to get up, only held there by Charon’s hands. “Shit, I know, I’m sorry! I wasn’t meanin’ we had to! I just—”

 

“Then would…just my shirt...be adequate for now?” he asks, quietly, and Max moans softly.

 

“Y-yes...I mean, only if you want to. Only if you won’t...be uncomfortable.”

 

Charon thinks for a moment, then carefully releases Max’s hips and leans back, pulling his shirt up over his head and laying it across the back of the couch.

 

“O-oh my God,” Max mumbles, looking him over, and then bites his lip. “C-can I...can I…”

 

Charon nods, wincing slightly, and then shudders as Max lays one hand over his chest, the other moving around to press against the small of his back. “Jesus...you’re like...strong...your arms, I mean...I like...uh…yeah, this is...this is good, I...I like this. I like this a lot. I’m...uh…” He leans forward, places a few experimental kisses to Charon’s neck, and then to his collar bone, sliding his hand down until his palm rests over Charon’s nipple.

 

Charon growls softly, gripping Max’s waist harder, and then abruptly flips him over to lay on the couch, hovering over him, hesitant.

 

“Please...do what you want,” Max says, breathlessly, and Charon hums, lowering himself down to sit on Max’s thighs. Max moans softly, tossing his head back, and then tugs Charon down and grabs his hair, kissing him desperately.

 

“I missed you, I missed you so much, God, I thought you’d leave me, I thought you’d hate me, Charon, I _love_ you, I just—I need you. I need you. Please. Don’t ever leave me.”

 

“I would do anything for you,” Charon says, gently resting his knee between Max’s legs, and Max immediately starts to grind up against it, whimpering.

 

“P-promise. Please? Please promise.”

 

Charon can’t. He can’t do that. He wishes he could. He purrs encouragingly into Max’s ear, distracts him by moving his knee, and whispers, “To the best of my ability, I will stay.”

 

“Y-yes?”

 

“Yes. Yes. I—oh, _Max_ ,” he breathes, nuzzling his face against Max’s neck and sliding a hand down between Max’s legs. “I—”

 

There’s three quick knocks on the door that startle them apart, and then, without waiting for a response, without giving them more than a second, Nova pushes it open and steps inside. “Max? I—oh, _fuck—_ ”

 

“Nova!” Max gasps, diving off and behind the couch and dragging one of the blankets with him while Charon only slides off to sit on the floor, putting the back of his hand to his mouth and clearing his throat.

 

“Jesus! _Jesus!_ ”

 

Nova covers her eyes, turns around, and then turns back, shaking her head. “I’m sorry! I didn’t _know,_ I thought—I was just wondering—”

 

Max scowls, standing up with the blanket wrapped tight around him. “You can’t just knock and come in! You gotta wait ‘till I say you can!”

 

“Well, I _promise_ I’ll remember next time, okay? Are you...can I open my eyes?”

 

“Well, yeah, I guess!”

 

She drags her hands down her face, staring at them as Max slumps down to sit.

 

“When did…?”

 

“I don't know!” Max snaps, and she giggles.

 

“Well,” she says, hand on her hip. “Um...when you’re...decent, we, uh, me and Gobbie need your advice on something back at the bar...doesn’t have to be now. Just...y’know. When you can. And, well, um...Mazel-Tov!” she adds, doing a ridiculous looking little bow, and then closes the door.

 

Charon snickers, and then puts a hand over his face, shakes his head, and _chuckles._ Max almost flinches from the mere shock of it, and he grabs Charon’s shoulder, half concerned there’s something wrong, because that couldn’t have been a _laugh,_ right? Charon is _choking_ or something.

 

“Are...you okay?”

 

Charon makes the noise again, tilts his head back, and _smiles_ at Max, reaching up to run a hand through Max’s hair.

 

“Yes,” he says, pulling him down to kiss him. “Yes.”

 

“You look so nice when you smile,” Max murmurs, giggling, cupping Charon’s cheek. “I wish you’d do it always. Now, I think, maybe,” he adds, pushing the blanket off, “it’s _possible_ , that you should come back up here.”

 

“Perhaps,” Charon says, placing one hand on Max’s shoulder and giving him a gentle but firm push onto his back, leaning to kiss him.

 

“Hmm,” Max hums, thoughtfully, and runs his fingers down Charon’s back, pleased when Charon arches slightly under his touch.

 

"So...can I call you Chare?" Max asks, and Charon makes a face, pulling back just enough to look at him.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Nova calls Gob Gobbie,” he explains, giggling. “Can I give you a nickname?”

 

"It would be preferable if you did not."

 

"Fine. Maybe not that. How about...Cherry?”

 

Charon snorts, kissing him again, mostly to try and shut him up. "I will absolutely refuse to respond to that."

 

Max sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Lame. How about darling? Doll face?"

 

" _This_ face?"

 

"It's a handsome face," Max says, tracing Charon's lips with his fingertip, and Charon kisses them, shaking his head.

 

Max blushes and pulls away with another giggle. "Fine. I’ll just call you my sweetheart, then."

 

Charon's expression goes from vague amusement to _fear,_ and then blanks out again. He recoils, sitting up, and flinches violently when Max reaches out to him.

 

Instantly pulling back, Max frowns. "What's wrong? What'd I do? Are you okay?"

 

"I am not a pet,” Charon says, reaching for his shirt and yanking it back on. “I do not need a pet name."

 

"No, I—I was just playing around! I didn't mean—"

 

"Do not _ever_ call me that again," Charon growls, so venomously that Max shrinks back. “Do you understand me?”

 

“Y-yes,” Max breathes, tearfully, frightened. “I’m sorry. Okay. I’m sorry.”

 

Charon bares his teeth in a snarl and stands, grabbing his cigarettes from the table and slamming the door as he steps outside without another word, leaving Max alone and trembling and confused. Things had been going so  _well,_ and of goddamn course, he’d had to ruin it yet again.

 

He doesn’t know what he did wrong, and when he asks Charon later, as they lay back in the upstairs bed, Charon doesn’t respond. He only turns to face the wall, as silent as ever, and Max sighs, tucking an arm under his head and closing his eyes.

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t. I love you. I know you’re not a pet. I’ll just call you Charon.”

 

“Thank you,” Charon finally answers, and Max scoots closer, nuzzling against his back. Charon tenses like he’s going to move away, and then slowly reaches back to take Max’s hand, pulling it around him.

 

“It was not you who hurt me,” Charon says after another long pause, and Max kisses his shoulder.

 

“I-I’m sorry. Do you...do you wanna talk about it?”

 

Charon squeezes his eyes shut; he can't stand even the idea of that. No. _Never._ “I wish to sleep.”

 

“Okay,” Max says, nodding, pulling a second blanket up and over them. “Goodnight, Charon.”

 

Charon is quiet a long moment, then turns onto his back, slipping his arm around Max and holding him close. Max coos softly, kisses Charon’s cheek, and tucks his head under Charon’s chin, and Charon counts the cracks in the ceiling until his eyes slip closed.

 

**x**

 

With his hand blocking most of the sun's rays from his eyes, Max squints up and shakes his head. “No, nope, that's not right. No. There's supposed to be an apostrophe there.”

 

Wobbling dangerously on the cracked ladder, Gob pauses, paintbrush dripping yellow onto the walkway below as he stares at the saloon’s sign. “ _What?_ ”

 

“Like, _Gob’s!_ ” Max explains, and then frowns. “You gotta—I remember from school, it—you know what, never mind. It looks great!”

 

Nova giggles, flicking ash from her cigarette, and leans against the railing beside him. There's a metallic clang from the roof, and a loud curse, and Max takes a few steps to the side, trying to get a better look. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yes,” Charon calls back, and then sits with his legs dangling over the side, wiping at his face. “I have spilled the paint.”

 

Gob sighs dramatically. “Max says I did it wrong.”

 

“Charon did, too. I can see."

 

Charon snorts, tilting his head down at him. “Would you like to come up here?”

 

“Not really, thank you,” Max says, and Nova wraps an arm around his shoulders, grinning.

 

“I think it looks great, myself,” she says, squeezing him affectionately. “You know, somehow, I don't think most folks are gonna care about somethin' like that, as long as the beer's good."

 

“Then I suffered through five million years of class for no goddamn reason,” Max says, groaning, and Nova pats his head.

 

“I think you're gonna be just fine.”

 

“I _guess,_ ” Max sighs in a highly exaggerated sort of way, and then watches as Gob climbs down and pushes the ladder over for Charon.

 

“Thank you,” Gob says, quietly, as Charon steps down. One of his arms folds around Charon in a hug, and Charon casts a slightly anxious side-glance at Max before quickly returning it.

 

“It was nothing.”

 

“For everything, I mean,” Gob continues, smiling up at him. “You're—”

 

“I think it's actually good how it is,” Max says, pulling away from Nova, and Charon steps back, returns to Max’s side.

 

“Y-yeah?” Gob asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “I like it. I really do. I-I can't believe Mr. Simms is letting us stay..."

 

“I think the whole town’s relieved the bastard’s gone,” Nova says, nodding. “And if anyone deserves to have this place, it’s you.”

 

“Us,” Gob says, and she wraps her arms around him, kissing his cheek.

 

“Us. And we’re gonna make it better than he ever could, aren't we?”

 

Gob coos softly, shyly turning away before nodding, and Nova hums, slipping her arm to rest around his waist and then looking back to Max. “You sure you can't stay for opening tonight?”

 

“If I stay, I’m gonna drink, and if I do that, tomorrow’s ruined, too, and…” Max shakes his head. “I suck, okay? And I know that. So I can't. We were gonna leave, like, two weeks ago. And now I heard on the radio my dumbass dad is trying to find a way to get rid of some super mutants or something, and...yeah. I think I should hurry up before he kills himself. Dunno why I  _care,_ but...y'know."

 

“Well, we’ll miss you,” she says, moving to hug him. “Don't get yourselves killed, either, okay?”  

 

“Okay,” Max says, sighing, pressing his face against her shoulder.

 

“Good luck,” Gob says, and his eyes have yet to leave Charon’s. “Be careful. Please come back.” He looks at Max, just as Max raises his head and pulls back. “Okay?”

 

Max smiles, and nods, and then reaches out and hugs him, too, just briefly. Gob doesn't even have the time to recover from the shock before Max has already stepped away, patting him on the shoulder. How odd...and very out of character. Is it possible Max had forgiven him?

 

“You gotta stay safe, too,” Max says, and Gob nods.

 

“Of course. I-I can, now. It’s...safe here, now. Max...I know I've said it a million times already, but...I'll never be able to thank you enough.”

 

“You don't have to,” Max grins, “trust me. It was my pleasure.”

 

Gob smiles and nods, gives Charon another glance, and then takes Nova’s hand, leading her inside.

 

“Ready?” Max asks, gently touching Charon’s hand, and Charon nods. He’s been mostly quiet the past few days but thankfully doesn’t seem too upset or uncomfortable anymore, and when Max offers him a little smile, Charon grips Max’s fingers in his own, giving them a little squeeze.

 

“You're still kinda limping...are you sure it doesn't hurt?”

 

“Not really,” Charon says, and frowns down at his legs. “I think that is just how I walk, now.”

 

A wave of guilt engulfs Max, and Charon seems to notice it on his face, tugging on his hand.

 

“Do not look at me like that, Max. It will not affect me, and it is _not_ your fault.”

 

“Yeah, whatever," Max says, and takes a deep breath. "Guess I can always just carry you again..."

 

"Never again," Charon says, giving him a stern look, and Max manages a little giggle, biting his lip and nodding as they start off.

 

"Maybe you can carry me, then...?"

 

"Absolutely not."

 

"Eh, worth a try."

 

**x**

 

"You know," Max says, looking Charon over as they start up the steps to Rivet City a few short days later, "I'm really glad that you're wearing that armor."

 

Charon clicks at the wristband of the Chinese stealth armor Max introduced to him, turning the camouflage off, and takes off the helmet. "It is an excellent tactical advantage for me to have. I think..." He pauses, squinting. "I think I may remember that they had these, or something similar, in the war. I am uncertain. I may need some armored plates to add, but otherwise, it is the best armor I have ever been given. Thank you."

 

Max giggles and says, "Yeah! It was too big for me anyway. Glad I grabbed it. 'Cause you...it...it fits you very nicely."

 

Charon glances down at him, looking a little confused, and Max explains with, "You look hot in it."

 

"It is not any warmer than the armor I am used to."

 

Max makes a face, and Charon suddenly, awkwardly coughs and tugs at his collar, muttering, "Oh. I have...misunderstood."

 

Giggling, Max nudges his side, and then hears a too-loud, exasperated sigh from the officer guarding the bridge.

 

"Not this thing again," she says, and Charon recognizes her to be the one who had threatened him in the hall during their first visit. "Jesus. You can't leave 'em outside?"

 

"No," Max says, "especially now that we're dating. It'd be kind of rude, don't you think?"

 

The officer makes a sound of disgust, reeling back, and Charon takes a step away from Max, shaking his head. "A joke," he murmurs, "I serve in combat only."

 

"That damn well better be all," she says, gesturing them on, and then sticks her arm out to block Charon just as he's passing. "Oh, hey, shuffler...you don't happen to know anything about how that Sister character died, do you? Seem to recall...you leaving...the day the body was found."

 

Max chokes, quickly recovering, and then glares at her, putting a hand on his hip and cocking it out to the side. "Excuse me? Are you accusing me of murder?"

 

"Did I say you?"

 

"He only does what I tell him to, so it would have had to have been my order. And I didn't order him. So, anything else?"

 

She snickers and shakes her head. "Nah. Don't think I gotta remind you that I'll throw his ass off the bridge tower if he so much as growls at anyone, do I?"

 

"Of course not," Max says, sweetly, and grabs Charon's arm just a little too tightly. "Have a _great_ day!"

 

He leads Charon into the stairway, then pushes him, something that doesn't even knock him off balance, though Max probably only meant it to get his attention.

 

"Did you seriously kill him? When?"

 

"Yes," Charon replies simply, offhandedly. "Right before we left. He threatened me with a knife. I believe I recall you saying you would not mind if I did so."

 

"What if they'd caught you? Jesus!" He shakes his head, opening the door for him and gesturing him through. "Let's just...see my stupid fuckin' dad, and get the hell out before they decide to arrest you or somethin'."

 

Charon shifts uncomfortably at the thought of being thrown in another prison, grimacing, and follows Max down to the science lab.

 

Immediately everyone looks up, and Charon stops halfway down the stairs, deciding it's safer not to get any closer. Max lets out a shaking breath as he steps onto the floor, watching as James comes forward, staring at him with wide eyes, clipboard hanging limp in his hand at his side.   

 

"...Max?"

 

Max smiles, just slightly, and says, "Hi, dad."

 

**x**

 

_"Quick important announcement from Three-Dog, kiddies: the Lone Wanderer rises again! Still not so lone anymore, and headin' out to...have a family reunion? Goin' in the right direction...we'll see...ah, hell, who knows. I'm just glad to see that kid's doin' alright. Ain't been the same without all the good he brings wherever he goes. And that power armor is just lookin' spic and span, ain't it? Ya wear it well. Let it protect ya from everythin' your ghoul friend can't. Which seems to be nothin', by the way; I've heard the aim on this guy is outta this fuckin' world. Anyway, more updates soon, I'm hopin'. For now, this's been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	27. Never Coming Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, you guys, I am so SORRY.
> 
> Also...
> 
> Holy shit.
> 
> You guys.
> 
> I am so...sorry.
> 
> WARNING for very brief allude to past rape/non-con, and several severe PTSD symptoms (a flashback and a panic attack).

James hasn’t slept in three days, and he thinks he’s hallucinating when he sees his son walk down the stairs of the science lab. It’s only that too-tall ghoul trailing along behind him that convinces him it’s real; not even in his wildest imagination could he conjure up something as grotesque as it— _him._

 

He quickly brings the beaker in his hand down to the table and takes a step forward as Max stops, exiting his power armor and looking up at him, appearing so much older than the last time they’d seen each other just months ago.

 

“Hi, dad,” Max says, giving a tiny smile; James approaches him, hands out, hesitant, and then wraps his arms around Max, bringing him close.

 

“My son...it's so good to see you,” he says, and Max inhales deeply, finally hugging him back.

 

“Yeah. You too.” He pulls back, awkwardly putting his hands in his pockets, and then looks up at Charon, who very, very slowly comes the rest of the way down to stand at Max’s side, his eyes rapidly scanning over the scientists, watching every slight movement they make.

 

James looks him over, clears his throat, and says, “Charon, right?”

 

Charon does nothing more than settle an unblinking gaze on him, and James tries not to squirm, focusing his attention back on Max as Max speaks.

 

“I heard on the radio you...needed help, right?”

 

“Yes,” James says, crossing his arms with a sigh. “The Memorial is overrun with mutants. We’ve been here, trying to create something to kill them off or hire someone to do it for us. None of us are fighters, and thus far...none of it has worked.”

 

“Oh,” Max murmurs, frowning, and shrugs. “We can take ‘em out for you.”

 

“My boy…” James says softly, “you would be doing us a great service. I wouldn't put you in such a situation if you weren't probably the first viable option to walk through our door.”

 

“I can fend for myself now,” Max says, sniffing; he sounds like he's on the verge of tears more often than not now. “A lot’s changed. But you know, when I came here, I thought maybe you'd wanna talk to me first. _Before_ you asked me to do your dirty work. I did come to help, but I thought...you know, that’s my fault.”

 

“Max—” James says, reaching out to touch his shoulder, and Max pulls away. Charon takes a step closer, looming, and James huffs.  

 

“I cannot possibly express how important this is, Max,” he says. “If it wasn't paramount to the future of everyone in the wasteland, _everyone,_ we _could_ sit down and talk. But it is, and there just isn’t time. I _need_ this, Max. We all do.”

 

Max nods, looks away, and then scoffs as he starts to go up the stairs. “I'm glad I can be here for what _you_ need.”

 

James opens his mouth, but Max and the ghoul are already gone before he can think of anything to say in response to that, and he sighs, bracing himself on the table.

 

“He came back,” Li says, and James smiles slightly.

 

“I hoped he would. He doesn't know...just how much this will affect the world for the better. He can't understand. We’ll talk when he comes back, though.”

 

When they clear the memorial a mere two hours later, however, Charon is the one to return, covered in blood and _alone._

 

“Where is my son?” James demands, approaching him with every intent of shoving right past him if need be, but Charon answers quickly enough.

 

“Unharmed. He wished me to tell you that the memorial can be entered now.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“He does not want to see you,” Charon says, and James scoffs.

 

“And he sent you to tell me this?”

 

“I do only as he commands,” Charon says, turning to leave, and then stops when James speaks again.

 

“Are you...hold on." James shifts, making a face. "You're not...his...you're not a... _slave_ , are you?”

 

“I am no one’s slave,” Charon says, glowering back at him. “I have been protecting your son, as you were not up to the task.”

 

“How _dare_ you?” James says, scowling. “You couldn't understand. Don’t think that you do. You don’t know my son. You’re...I did what I had to. Max knows that.”

 

“Does he?” Charon asks coldly. “Is that why he does not wish to see you?”

 

James hasn't slept in three days, his patience and temperament running dangerously thin, and he clenches his fists, resisting the urge to physically lash out at the stupid giant _creature._ “You don’t know a goddamn thing, _ghoul,_ ” he says, voice uncharacteristically rough, strained. “I want to see my son, and you can't stop me."

 

“I am," Charon says, giving a shrug with one shoulder, and then exits the room. James follows him, and Charon sighs, leaning against the wall after a moment and refusing to go on.

 

“Take me to him. _Now._ ”

 

Charon ignores him, crossing his arms and looking straight ahead, and James scowls.

 

“I am not going to leave until I speak with him.”

 

Still entirely silent and unmoving, Charon stays where he is until finally James exhales sharply in exasperation and gives up.

 

“You tell him that I want to see him, you hear me?”

 

Charon cocks his head to the side and grunts, “Hm?” as if he definitely _didn't_ hear him, and James looks him up and down in absolute disgust and turns on his heel, storming back into the science lab. Charon rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the wall, returning to the room Max had rented for the night.

 

“Are you okay?” Max asks when he enters, gesturing for him to sit on the bed, and Charon gives a tired nod, obeying.

 

“Sore.”

 

“Yeah, me too. I'm sorry. I didn't know there'd be so many.” He kisses Charon's head and rubs gently, soothingly at Charon's elbow, which had taken a particularly brutal hit from a mutant's club, and Charon sighs softly, tilts his head back to kiss him.  

 

“What did...what did he say?” Max asks, moving his hands up to give Charon’s shoulders an awkward massage, and Charon only stays quiet about it because he's _trying,_ and it's _cute._

 

“That he wishes to see you,” he replies, and Max hums.

 

“Good. He better. We did just almost die for him. I should probably know better by now than to think he _won't_ be a dick, but...Jesus, it's…” He trails off, plopping down onto his back. “It's so...weird. He's so different now. He's…I don't know. Different.”

 

Charon lays beside him, tugging him close and pressing his face against Max’s hair, making himself comfortable. “This world changes people,” he finally says, and Max nods.

 

“Yeah. I'm...yeah.” He scoffs, reaching up to pet Charon's head. “I should probably know that by now, shouldn't I? Especially after...everything. I just...I dunno. I wish the vault had been different. Nicer. And then I wouldn't have minded staying forever.”

 

Charon gives a very unhappy sounding grunt, and Max curls towards him.

 

“But then I wouldn't have you, and that wouldn't be good. Because I need you. You're my Charon."

 

Though he says nothing, Charon knows goddamn well he'd needed Max, too; needed him to escape, needs him now to feel anything at all.

 

“I love you,” Max continues, kissing his cheek, and then makes a face. “And as someone who loves you, and your friend, I'm forced to let you know when you need a bath. You're kinda…” He wipes his finger under Charon's chin, and then grimaces. “Leaking. From your skin. Your...your not-skin parts.”

 

“I am a ghoul,” he says. “That happens.”

 

“It's icky,” Max murmurs, and then coughs. “Ah—sticky. I—it's, you know, it's fine! But um...it's probably uncomfortable, and I just...think you'd feel better if you...you know, the radiation and—”

 

“Max,” Charon interrupts, taking his hand. “I know I am...unsightly. Disgusting. If it would please you if I bathed, than I shall.”

 

“You're not even—it's not—I'd kiss you even like you are! I'd—I'd even—” He slaps his hand down on Charon's thigh, very gently, but Charon still startles.

 

“I'd put my mouth on you.”

 

Charon chokes on his next breath in, swatting Max's hand away. “Ah... _that_...uh…”

 

Max's eyes go wide. “What? Is that...no?”

 

Charon just stares at him, and Max giggles quietly.

 

“I've never made you _speechless_ before…”

 

“Another joke…” Charon says, and Max frowns, shaking his head.

 

“No. That's not a joke. I’d—”

 

“ _Okay,_ ” Charon says, squirming, and sits up.  

 

“Okay?”

 

“N-no, _no, not_ okay,” Charon quickly sputters, and Max is obviously delighted he's flustered Charon so much.

 

“You're so red, I'm _sorry_ , oh my God—”

 

“I will bathe now,” Charon finally manages, and Max tries to hold back laughter.

 

“Okay...yeah...go…”

 

“Ah...yes…” Charon mumbles, moving up and out of the room with more panicked urgency than Max would like, and he sighs, sitting with his legs crossed on the bed.

 

Too far...he always goes too damn far. Maybe he should have listened to his father telling him that more than a few times.

 

His stupid father. He really needs to go see him, doesn't he? They need to talk, and maybe now that Max is a little more level-headed, they can discuss what really needs to be handled.

 

He sits there for a little while, humming to himself and waiting for Charon to return, to come with him, but eventually he becomes too restless to be still. Finally taking a breath and forcing himself up, he makes his way back down to the science lab, nearly knocking right into James in the hallway.

   
  
"Max," James says, and smiles warmly at him. "It's good to see you're well."

  
  
Max shrugs nonchalantly. "I told Charon to tell you I was.”

  
  
James shifts the boxes in his arms and nods. “Yes. He did. It's just...something I wanted to see for myself. Thank you, my boy. For what you did today, for...for rescuing me...for everything you've done.”

 

“I had help,” Max mutters, gently kicking at the floor and pursing his lips. “But I wouldn't need help now. I wouldn't. I...I went...I went to—” 

 

“Do you think we could speak on the way to the memorial?” James asks, again shifting the boxes, and Max fumes quietly for a moment. How dare his father interrupt him? After everything—

 

He pushes out his breath. _This world changes people._ Max is not the only one, and just as it is not his fault, it likely isn't James’s.

 

“Sure,” he says finally, grabbing two of the three boxes and nodding. “Let's talk.”

 

“Alright,” James responds, and although it’s awkwardly silent for a few minutes, once they get outside, James clears his throat and asks, “How...have you been?”

 

“Shitty,” Max immediately says, and then sighs. “I mean, I’m...pretty fine, I guess.”

 

James nods in agreement. “Me too. I guess.”

 

Max doesn’t reply, tongue in cheek, and simply walks alongside the man. Finally James chuckles softly, and Max frowns, trying not to glare as he looks up. What the hell is _he_ laughing at? Nothing’s funny! Nothing about anything is funny!

 

“...What?”

 

“You just…” He smiles, nudging Max affectionately with his shoulder. “Your hair. It’s gotten so long. You never let it get like that in the vault. You look so much like your mother.”

 

“So...I look like a girl?”

 

“No. No, I didn’t mean it like that—”

 

“‘Cause I don’t...I don’t mind that,” Max says, tucking his hair behind his ears. He likes it, and likes that Charon has more to run his fingers through. “Not sometimes. I’ve been told I’m very pretty, and I like it. And they wouldn’t _let_ me keep it this long. I like it. Just to here. If it got any longer, I think I’d get annoyed.”

 

James looks vaguely uncomfortable. “You’re just as handsome as I was at that age. Well, almost.”

 

“Excuse me,” Max says, cracking a little grin despite himself as his father laughs, and then he shakes himself, tries to keep his face expressionless. Goddamn, he has no idea how Charon does it; he’s never been good at hiding anything.

 

“You really hurt me,” he says, and James wets his lips, looks down at the ground and sighs.

 

“I know. And I understand if you can never forgive me. But you have to know I did it for you. For your mother. She wanted this even more than any of us.”

 

"She would have wanted you to leave me?"

 

"No!" James squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head. "No. No, she would have never wanted you in danger. She loved you so much. I love you so much, Max. You have to know that what happened...it was not intentional. I left, yes, but as far as I knew, I left you safe."

 

"Without another parent," Max says, softly. "Alone."

 

"Max..."

 

“What...what was she like?” Max manages, and James’s smile returns, far more melancholy; it's entirely possible, Max thinks, that the man is happy just to change the subject away from his own failures. 

 

“Beautiful. Charming. Funny. And God, so damn stubborn, just like you.” He scoffs, clearing his throat and subtly trying to blink back tears. “She would be so proud of you.”

 

“Me? What’ve I done?”

 

“Max, I’ve heard the radio. You disarmed a bomb? Saved a city? You’ve helped out Three-Dog, you’ve helped _me._ You’re worth being proud of, Max. I’m so proud of you.”

 

Max’s eyes sting, and he whimpers softly. It’s not like he needs to be told that. Not by his stupid fucking father.

 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t...right?

 

“Th-thank you. I’m...that...um…”

 

“ _Max?”_

 

Max whirls around, surprised, and stares at Charon as he makes his way over to them from where he must have been at the riverside, his hair still dripping wet. He looks worried, but Max can only smile up at him and say, “Hi.”

 

“Where is your armor?” Charon asks, _demands,_ and Max frowns.

 

“I...I left it on the boat.”

 

“Why? Why are you out here exposed?”

 

“Lower your voice before you notify the danger exactly where we are,” James says, and Charon practically hisses at him.

 

“ _You_ are not my concern. You can be as foolish as you want. But Max, you cannot—”

 

“I can do whatever I want,” Max interrupts. “It’s heavy, and clunky, and exhausting to walk in. I’m fine, okay? It’s only like five feet away!”

 

“And five feet from the city last time we were here, mercenaries tried to kill you. You should not be out here without protection. Without me, or without your armor. Do you—are you not even carrying your gun? Max!"

 

"Stop," Max says. “Why are you being so annoying?”

 

Charon almost seems offended. "Annoying?"

 

“Yeah! Look, I’m going to the memorial. You can get my bag, and my gun, if you want. But it’s safe there, remember? We just made it safe. Just...just go help the rest of them bring the stuff over, okay?”

 

Charon clearly wants to say something else, but the order forces him to turn and walk before he can get it out, and he instead growls out something incoherent under his breath. Max winces, resolves to apologize as soon as Charon returns, and then glances at James and starts off again.

 

“So what about him?” James asks, and Max feels a deep, cold terror in his stomach. Oh, _no,_ he could never tell his father. _Never._ He had never been disapproving of his attractions, per se, but he definitely hadn’t encouraged it. He’d been so convinced Max would fall for ‘the right girl’ eventually—Max can’t even imagine how James would react to knowing that not only is he seeing a _man,_ but that that man is a _ghoul._

 

“Ah...what about him?" he asks. "You mean...that? I mean...he’s fine...grouchy...overprotective, a little, I guess…”

 

James shrugs, pursing his lips. “Ah, no. Well, he...he isn’t...how do I put this? Did you... _purchase_ him?”

 

Max stiffens. “No.”

 

“Oh, good. That’s good.”

 

“I bought his contract.”

 

James stops, moving to block Max from continuing, and Max sidesteps around him.

 

“ _Max,_ what’s gotten into you? You—you’re slaving now? My own son!”

 

“Fuck off,” Max mutters. “He’s not my slave. He’s my...friend. My bodyguard. I didn’t buy him, I _freed_ him from a dickhole that was abusing him, okay? I’m the good guy! I _helped_ him! He’s _mine,_ but that’s because he wants to be mine. I mean, he—he wants to be with me, to be my friend. He’s my friend. Okay? And—and I want you to stop...to stop looking at him like that.”

 

“What?”

 

With a scoff, Max glares at him. “You know what. You look at him like—like everyone else does! Like he’s disgusting! Because he's not! If you want me to help you, you have to be nice to him. And I’m serious. And tell your stupid science friends, too!” He shoves the door of the memorial open, giving no reaction to his shoe sinking deep into a puddle of gore, and James turns pale, groaning softly and tiptoeing around it.

 

“I will try,” he finally answers as they set the boxes inside the rotunda, and Max sits down on the steps, the same ones he had waited on while Charon sliced a bullet out of his shoulder all that time ago, before everything changed. He shifts, holding his knees close to his chest, and then shakes his head.

 

“I went to war,” he says, and James stops dead. He stays there for a moment, and then slowly comes to sit beside Max.

 

“What?” he asks, so very softly, and Max stifles a whimper.

 

“There was...there was...a simulation, and…” He wipes tears out of his eyes, struggling to keep them back. “I know, I _know_ it wasn’t real, okay? I mean, I do _now._ But when I was there, it...it was months. _Months._ And I d-didn’t know what was real or not anymore. I...it was...it was so real. It was too real. And Charon...god, they just...they…”

 

“Who are they?”

 

“The Outcasts,” Max sniffles. “I went to help, and they... _hurt_ Charon. They hurt him really, really bad. They...they beat him, and shot him, and I don’t...I don’t even know what else, because it hurts too much for him to talk about it, and it’s all because—just because he’s a fuckin’ ghoul! That’s it! Nothing else! So don’t—don’t be like them, okay? I can’t fuckin’ deal with all these stupid idiot people who want to kill him for nothing! They almost killed him...they tried...they tried to kill _me..._ I didn’t...I’m so…”

 

“Max,” James murmurs, carefully putting his arm around him. “I’m so sorry, my son. I am. I had no idea.”

 

“That’s right! You don't know! You don’t know anything about him! You’d probably like him if you tried! Don't...I don't wanna be touched right now!"

 

“Okay.” James backs off, scooting a few inches away, and clasps his hands together in front of his mouth. He waits until Max’s breathing has somewhat normalized again and then says, “We can get you help, Max. We can get you back on medication. I’ll see to it. I don’t want you to be sad, Max. I don’t want you...I don’t want you to hurt yourself again.”

 

“I haven’t,” Max says, uncomfortably. It isn't really a lie, right? “I...I just drink now."

 

“That’s not much of an improvement,” James says, and Max scoffs.

 

“Like you care. You wouldn’t even _know_ if I hadn’t decided to come. _Charon_ helps me. Not you. You haven’t done shit for me since you left. You haven’t made me feel better. You’ve made me feel worse. _He_ makes me feel better.”

 

“Isn’t that because he has to? I don’t quite understand what sort of contract this is, but—”

 

“He doesn’t have to!” Max insists, scowling, and pushes himself back to his feet. “He doesn’t have to do anything! I don’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to! He’s not my slave! He’s my—”

 

The door slams open, and one of the scientists comes in with his hands already moving about in a wild, exasperated gesture. “James! Can I ask _why_ you’re lettin’ your kid’s fuckin’ shuffler contaminate all of our equipment? Do you _really_ think it’s a good idea to have him anywhere near Project _Purity?_ ”

 

“Excuse me?” Max says, approaching him with not a damn trace of fear in his face despite being a good deal shorter, and the scientist snorts and crosses his arms.

 

“What?”

 

“Well, first of all, his name is Charon, and he’s obviously more of a human than you are.”

 

“Listen, kid—”

 

“And second, he’s not contaminating anything, you dick. Dad, who the hell’s this joke? You work with him?”

 

James doesn’t respond with more than, “This is Daniel,” and Daniel forces a thin-lipped smile.

 

“Pleasure’s mine. Max, right? Glad to see the cause behind the, what, almost twenty years that this project was abandoned. Lot smaller than I thought you'd be."

 

Max scowls, puts his hands on his hips, and then Charon shoulders his way past the man to Max’s side. Max's gun and bag are slung over his shoulder, along with his own, but he doesn't offer them to Max; reaching for a weapon is exactly the last thing he wants to do right now in front of people who would probably use any excuse they could to kill him.

 

“Ow!” Daniel says, rubbing his arm, and then points at Charon. “Watch yourself. And don’t you touch anything! I’m serious! Not a goddamn thing!”

 

Charon is close enough to the stairs that he can slowly, deliberately reach out and grab onto the metal railing, never breaking eye-contact with the man, and Daniel sneers, grumbles curses under his breath, and then turns, slamming the door on his way out.

 

“Your friends are great,” Max says, glaring up at his father, and James rubs at his eyes, leaning against the wall for support.

 

“We all must work together to get the purifier up and running," he says. "It will...it will be a task. Even now, even with all of our advancements, all of this knowledge we have.”

 

“Well,” Max says, sighing heavily. “I’m here, now, so...what can I do?”

 

James smiles tiredly, nodding, and takes Max’s hand. “Thank you.” He breathes in slowly, and then moves his gaze up to Charon. “And...and thank you...Charon. For keeping my boy safe, and for helping us move our things in. I…” His eyes dart to Max, and then back, anxiously. “I am sorry for what I, and all the rest of them, have said about you.”

 

Charon doesn’t react for a moment, then gives a single, small nod. He certainly didn’t expect that...what had Max said to bring that about? Surely not that they were... _together,_ right?

 

Max brushes his hand against Charon’s, nearly stopping Charon’s heart right there, and then steps closer to James, leaving Charon to heave out a breath of relief at the lack of shown affection. Good. He isn’t sure he could handle if anyone here knew...especially with the insults and glares they had shot his way as he walked here with them. While he was carrying most of their things, no less.

 

“I’m glad you're here,” James says, honestly, and gives Max’s shoulders a little squeeze. “Let me show you around, and we’ll see what we can find for you to do.”

 

**x**

 

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier,” Max says, slipping his hand into Charon’s once they’re alone in the basement of the memorial. “Like, really sorry. I’m just...stressed. You’re right. I shouldn’t have left without my armor. I just...I was distracted. I’m sorry. And...and I’m also sorry for what I said in the room.”

 

Charon squeezes his hand, a small frown on his face as he looks down at Max. “What did you say there?”

 

“Um..." He flushes. "It was...really inappropriate.”

 

“Oh,” Charon says, pulling his hand away to rub at the back of his neck. “Yes. It is...fine.”

 

“I just...okay, hold on.” He nudges Charon’s arm, sitting on a bed they come across and gesturing for Charon to sit beside him. “I need to ask you something...really serious. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Charon says, staying right where he is, and Max clears his throat, wringing his hands together.

 

“I don’t...know how to, uh...well, I mean...you’re...okay, aren’t you? Like...with us? With...me?”

 

“Have I done something to cause you to believe otherwise?”

 

“No! No. I just...I want...I want _you_ to feel good, too, you know? I want...I want you to trust me like that. I mean...not that we have to do anything! You never have to do anything! Shit that came out wrong, ah, like, fuck, I _know_ why you don’t wanna, I just—I—that’s the _only_ reason you don’t wanna, right? It’s...it’s not me, is it? You trust me, don’t you? Trust that I won’t…?”

 

Charon takes a deep breath, kneels down in front of Max, and shakes his head. “It is not you, Max. I trust you.”

 

“The contract...it doesn’t—”

 

“It has nothing to do with the contract. I have never trusted an employer before. It is not required. I trust you. I am…” He shifts, wincing as a dull pain shoots through his knee, and Max tugs at his arms.

 

“Get off the floor! You’re gonna hurt yourself!"

 

Charon obeys, hauling himself up to sit beside Max, and then cups Max’s chin, kissing him gently. “I am not afraid of you. I am just…unable to forget.”

 

“I know,” Max says, leaning against him and closing his eyes. “I know. I-I’m sorry. I’m not trying to—I just...I wish I could make you feel good.”

 

“You can do so without sex,” Charon says. “You do. I...I do not think I will _never_ want to go further...perhaps in the future...but this is so very soon, Max.”

 

“Is it...is it too soon for you to do what you do to me?” Max asks, and Charon shakes his head.

 

“No. It pleases me greatly,” Charon says, voice rumbling low in his chest, and Max giggles softly, gnawing on a fingernail.

 

“Me too…it’s just...I wanna...you know...do that, too.”

 

Charon doesn’t immediately wince at the idea, which is as much progress as Max can hope for, but he does roll his shoulders, trying to relax tense muscles.

 

“That alone is still a shock,” he finally says, and Max pulls Charon’s hand up and kisses the back of it.

 

“I do. I really do. I want to make you...ah...feel good. Really good. Can I...can I kiss you?”

 

Charon makes a face but grunts out an agreement, grasping gently at Max’s hair and then pulling lightly as Max nips at his neck.

 

“Not here.”

 

“Why not?” Max asks, trailing kisses up to Charon’s mouth. “I miss you...we haven’t...since Megaton…just wanna kiss you.”

 

Charon holds back a groan; it feels so good to be _wanted,_ to be touched so gently and held so close, and he fucking _hates_ it, but he doesn't hate it at all, not really, and he knows he won’t say no.

 

“You smell a lot better,” Max whispers into the hole of his ear, like it’s something lewd, and Charon chuckles and wraps an arm around him, bringing him into his lap. Max gasps—because oh, _hello_ , he’s never been _here_ before—and wraps his legs tight around Charon’s waist.

 

“If you don’t wanna—” Max pants between kisses, “I won’t. I don’t ever have to. I love you.”

 

“Mm.” Charon twists his body and pushes Max down against the mattress, kissing and nipping at his collarbone, making sure to keep it somewhere no one will see (Max’s skin bruises so _easily_ ), and then slips a hand underneath Max’s shirt. Max moans softly, tossing his head back and scrabbling at the metal plating Charon had welded onto the shoulders of his armor.

 

“Please, can you just—these— _ugh_ —”

 

Charon pulls back just enough to unzip his armor, peeling it down to his waist and tossing his shirt away before leaning back over Max, grabbing Max’s hand and placing it over his chest.

 

“Oh, Charon…”

 

“I trust you. Do not ever think otherwise. You…” He swallows hard. “You touching me is not the problem. It is me. It is always me, Max. It is never you.”

 

Max tilts his head, trying to steady his breathing. “Wh-what?”

 

“I _want_ you to,” Charon says, grimacing, “but I...I have not...I do not want to lose myself.”

 

“What?” Max asks, frowning, utterly confused; lose himself? How? “What does that mean?”

 

Charon makes another face, discomfited, and then grunts, “I do not want to lose _control_ of myself.”

 

Max props himself up a little bit. “Like...wait...like you don’t wanna...come?”

 

“I…”

 

“That’s it? That’s what you’re...scared of?”

 

Charon pulls himself up and away, scanning the floor for his shirt. “I am not _afraid_ of it.”

 

“Then what? Tell me, please?”

 

“I just _did._ I...do not want to lose myself. I have never—Max, I have—”

 

That halts Max totally, and he widens his eyes. “ _Wait._ You’ve never had a—?”

 

“I have never _wanted_ to,” Charon whispers, barely audible at all, and then he slumps back against the wall, slides down it to sit on the floor.

 

It’s terribly silent for a moment, and then the bed creaks as Max moves to the edge closest to Charon, his hands clasped in his lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

 

“There is so _much_ you do not know,” Charon says. “That is the problem. That is why this...us...it is—”

 

“No. Don’t. Don’t say it can’t work. It _can._ It has been! Everything has been okay! Hasn’t it?”

 

Charon rubs at his eyes with a hand, then massages his temple. “Thus far.”

 

Max frowns. “So...you’re just... _waiting_ for it to get fucked up?”

 

Charon closes his eyes, emotionally exhausted, and Max huffs.

 

“I thought I was making you feel good, not worse.”

 

“You do not make me feel worse,” Charon says, glancing up at him. “...I do. There has been nothing, _nothing_ good in my life, and for it to have lasted this long? I trust you, Max, but I do not trust... _this_.”

 

Max looks back down at the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...I was probably pressuring you, and I don’t want it to seem like—Charon, I don’t care if we ever do anything again! I told you that. I don’t care if we only kiss, or only be close, I just...I want you. I want to have you with me forever, and not because of your contract. _Never_ because of that stupid thing. But because you like me. Or...maybe...I dunno. If you felt even more for me one day...that too.”

 

“I feel everything for you, Max,” Charon says, so quietly, shaking his head. “It is suffocating.”

 

“Sorry,” Max mumbles, rubbing at his arm, and Charon reaches up to take his hand. “I’m sorry I even brought it up. I just...wanted to make sure it wasn’t ‘cause of me, or…or whatever.”

 

“No. Just...please allow me time, Max.”

 

Max nods, leaning to kiss his head. “As much time as you need. Sorry.”

 

“Stop apologizing,” Charon says, cupping his hand against Max’s cheek and tilting his head up to kiss him. “You have done nothing wrong.”

 

Max hums, and then they jerk away as there’s a loud hiss of static, and then _James’s_ voice rings loud from down the hallway. “Max? How are you doing, my boy? Everything okay?”

 

“What the _fuck?”_ Max hisses, panicking, and flings himself off the bed to grab Charon’s shirt and shove it back into his arms. “Shit, _hurry,_ just—”

 

Charon is obedient, of course, but there’s a smirk across his lips, and Max stares at him in the utmost horror.

 

“What’s funny?”

 

“The intercom,” Charon says, and Max sighs in relief, falling back down onto the bed.

 

“Oh. _Fuck_ , I thought he was really down here.”

 

“So...am I to assume we shall not be revealing our...relations...to him?”

 

“Uh, you’d assume right. Fuck no. Not yet, anyway. Let’s just...get all this Project Purity bullshit out of the way, first. Then we can all have a nice, long chat over dinner."

 

Charon gives him a look, and Max grins, planting a kiss on his cheek. 

 

"Sounds like fun, don't it? Yeah. Now let's go, grumpy."

 

**x**

 

It’s late the next afternoon, after running errands and performing maintenance work and more than he ever would have bothered to do had his father not been the one to ask him, when Max finally falls asleep. Charon finds him sprawled on the floor, curled into himself, and regrets that the boy had let himself get so exhausted he hadn't even been able to drag his blanket out from his bag. Charon shoulders their things and then picks Max up, hoping to quietly make his way out and back to the city. He's tired by now, too; a good night’s rest definitely won't hurt either of them.

 

Instead he almost immediately comes across James, who takes one look at them and sighs, reaching up to scratch the back of his head.

 

“He can sleep here,” he says, gesturing towards the door leading to the basement. “There are beds downstairs.”

 

“He would want—”

 

“He would want to stay,” James says, crossing his arms. “Look, I...I’m willing to look past...certain _differences_ we have, but...I’d appreciate it if you...well, if you…”

 

Charon tilts his chin up, fixing the man with one of his unsettling gazes, and James tugs at his shirt collar.

 

“I care about him. I took care of him for his entire life. I know you...both of you...think I don’t care about him, but I do. I love him. I appreciate everything you’ve done for him, but you can trust me. He can trust me. I'm his father. I...I do care about what's best for him."

 

Charon tries not to scoff, because Max had mentioned something about not being ‘rude’. Max shifts slightly in his arms, and James moves, reaches out as if Charon would _ever_ hand him over, and Charon turns to the side, holds Max tighter, glaring.

 

“Hi, Char,” Max hums happily, and then reaches up, cups the back of Charon’s head, and leans up to kiss his cheek. 

 

“ _Max_ ,” Charon grits out, all while staring at James as the man goes stiff, and then red-faced.

 

“Put him down. _Now,_ ” James says, and Charon does, holding Max’s upper arms until Max regains his balance, looking around with half-opened eyes.

 

“What? What’s goin' on?"

 

“Max,” James says, grabbing him and pulling him away from Charon, and Charon holds himself still. “Max, you can’t—no. I want the truth, _now._ What’s going on between you and...him? He can’t seriously be—you can’t possibly—”

 

“I love him,” Max says, nonchalantly, and Charon tenses. “I wasn’t gonna tell you, you fuckin’ nosy...nosy person.”

 

James looks like someone just slapped him; utter devastation visibly falls over him at what is clearly the worst news he’s ever received. “ _Max._ You can’t—”

 

“Can’t what?" Max asks, I can do whatever the fuck I want, _James._ He loves me. He does. He’s nicer than anyone.”

 

“No. _No._ He doesn’t—Max, this is—this is completely unacceptable,” James says, and Max smiles.

 

“Is it?” he asks. “Why? Because he’s a ghoul, or because he’s got a dick?”

 

Charon flushes, shakes his head, and James scowls. “You—”

 

“Have you seen him fight?” Max says, leering, getting right up in James’s face. “Because the only thing he’s better at is _fucking me_."

 

Charon's breath stutters, and he goes entirely rigid.

 

James hasn't slept in over three days, has long since started tripping over his own feet, and he doesn’t realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.

 

He lifts his hand, opens it, and strikes his palm across Max’s cheek.

 

It hurts more than Max would have expected, and only a fraction of it is physical. His father has never _struck_ him before. He’s been angry, he’s yelled, but he’s never—

 

Max lets out a soft cry, reaching up to the spot, and Charon has James pinned back against the wall before the man can even blink.

 

“Max!" James finally says, breathless. “My son, I'm—I'm so sorry, that was—I would _never_ —”

 

“You have,” Charon hisses, gritting his teeth against the slight throbbing of his head. The contract, his programming, can't tell the difference, gives him a minor headache for a minor injury as it always has, but it should be so much worse, because Charon has allowed Max's _own father_ to hurt him and it's absolutely unforgivable.

 

James's eyes water as he struggles, and he kicks Charon's knee, and Charon narrows his eyes in a disguised wince and snarls.

 

"You sick _bastard,_ you—you’ve taken advantage of my son, you perverted son of a—let go of me, I can’t—”

 

“Let him go.”

 

Charon growls but complies with Max’s surprising command, stepping back with all of his weight on one leg while he recovers. Goddamn knee, Goddamn _James_ , who reaches for the gun at his side only to find Charon has already snatched it away, looking up as Charon tosses the weapon and its clip to different corners of the room.

 

“He didn’t take advantage of me,” Max says, voice shaking. “I love him. I kissed him first, not that it matters. He doesn’t do _anything_ I don’t want. He can’t. The contract.”

 

“Max…” James says, panting. “You are sick. You are so _sick._ You have to know this isn't normal. Please. We can help you, we can get you help, we—”

 

“I’m in love with him,” Max interrupts, his hands clenched at his sides in an effort to keep himself steady. “And...and you can’t _help_ me. You can’t fix me, because I’m not fuckin’ broken. I never was. They told me I was, and you _let_ them, and—and I don’t know why you let them...I don’t know why I ever wanted to see your stupid, sorry ass again. I’m—I’m leaving, I’m fuckin’ going, and you are _never_ gonna see me again. Never!”

 

“Max—”

 

“You’ll be sorry when you miss me! But I’m never coming back! Not this time!” He turns on his heel, storming off. “Let’s go, Charon!”

 

Charon looks at James once more, and then follows Max up to the front door. Max slams it open and then freezes, and Charon hears the Vertibird just a second before Max grabs for the rifle at his back and says, “I got it,” as he crouches down and aims into the sky.

 

“Max, get back!” Charon shouts as the whirring only gets louder, and Max doesn't, only shoots up at where Charon can’t see. “Max! What are you—” He grabs Max’s shoulders, yanking him back and shutting the door, and Max rakes his nails down the side of Charon’s face with a screech.

 

“Red scum!”

 

“Max! Max? Stop, I—”

 

Max spits, growling out the most guttural, feral sound Charon has ever heard from him, and Charon has to grab his hands to keep them from hurting him again.

 

“Benji, take it down!” Max cries, and then starts swearing and fighting harder, spitting insults as Charon hauls him up and drags him down to the end of the hall and into the basement, locking them into one of the rooms.

 

Max is still squirming desperately, sobbing, “No, no, no! I can't die, please! Benji, help! I'm—”

 

“Max, please, you must be quiet!” Charon whispers, holding him tighter. “Max, you are safe. You are okay. You are safe.”

 

“Please, please, I just—I want Charon, please don't—”

 

Charon has no choice but to put his hand over Max’s mouth as he hears the shattering of glass and gunshots from far too close.

 

“I am here! Max, it is me. You are safe. I am with you. I will keep you safe.”

 

Max whimpers, muttering to himself, and struggles a few seconds longer before finally going limp, sucking in air as Charon lifts his hand, rubbing his back, still whispering to soothe him.

 

“Charon?” Max finally asks, blinking hard up at him, and then he startles. “Wh-what’s—”

 

“Ssh!” Charon says, covering his mouth again. “The Enclave. They are here.”

 

Max’s eyes go wide, and then he pries Charon’s hand away, thankfully lowering his voice. “Here? Why—why are they here? What...how did we get here, I don’t—?”

 

“You panicked. You were…you were having a flashback. I do not know why they are here, but it cannot be good, and we need to _get out._ Do you understand me? They are too powerful, and there are too many. We need to move _now._ ”

 

Wheezing, hands trembling, Max nods, and Charon helps him to his feet before handing him his gun and bag.

 

“Stay behind me.”

 

“M-my dad—” Max stammers, “wait, we have to—we can’t let him die! I can’t—I shouldn’t have said—please, Charon we have to—”

 

A blast of plasma knocks the doors of its hinges, and Charon fires several rounds into the armored Enclave agent that comes through. The bullets bounce off, hardly doing any damage at all, and Charon ducks down behind the desk to avoid the responding fire, activating the stealth mode of his armor and then leaning out from the other side, shooting until he drops.

 

“Get in the armor,” Charon says, grabbing Max from where he had been cowering on the floor and pulling him forward, then releasing him to drag the dead man out of the armor. “Focus. Focus, Max! Take his gun. It will do far more damage.”

 

Max blinks hard, whimpering. “Wh-what about you?”

 

"I’ll take the next one. Move, _now,_ go!”

 

Shakily, Max does so, only fully coming back to himself as they take down their third Enclave soldier.

 

“Charon!" he shouts, and Charon brushes his hand against his, crouched beside him and hardly visible.

 

“Wh-what now?”

 

“Your father," Charon replies. "Up the stairs, go. Put the helmet on. They will not recognize you, and will not see me. I will follow your lead, when you have a decent shot and adequate coverage. Then I will cover you.”

 

It’s scary how easily he falls back into what he had been in the simulation, as if no time at all has passed. He nods, takes a deep breath, and takes the stairs as fast as his armor will let him, opening the door. As predicted, he’s ignored, and he moves into the corner of the room before he blows the soldier closest to him away with one shot to the head. While Charon goes to work on the rest, Max fires his way to the rotunda’s entrance, shoving his way inside to find Dr. Li pounding madly on the keyboard by the stairs, muttering to herself.

 

“What is he _doing?_ ”

 

“Where is he? Where’s my dad?” Max demands, and she points up.

 

“He’s locked himself in—”

 

Max doesn’t catch the rest, doesn’t _care,_ just rushes up to the glass door separating him from his father and three more of the Enclave.

 

“Dad!” Max shouts, but his father doesn’t so much as glance at him. He looks so tired, so old, and so _done_ as he looks down at one of the scientists, dead, at his feet.

 

“I suggest you comply immediately, sir,” the only Enclave personnel Max has seen without armor says, holstering his weapon, “in order to prevent anymore...incidents. Are we clear?”

 

“Yes, Colonel,” James grits out. “I’ll do whatever you want. There’s no need for more violence.”

 

Then this man, this Colonel, had killed her. God, that meant they would kill his father next, and—no, he just can’t let that happen.

 

The man demands James activate the purifier, hand it over, and Max doesn’t hear James’s response, taking a step back as the door to the rotunda slams open and Charon comes in, calling his name.

 

“I’m here!” Max says, and Charon quickly moves to Max’s side, blood running down his chin from the holes of his nose, a blackened sear mark from a laser gun at his hip that he’s clutching at with one hand.

 

“They are dead...but there will be more...we must—”

 

“Can you get this door open? Shoot it? Do—do fuckin’ somethin’, Li is useless and my dad is—”

 

The entire memorial seems to shake, suddenly, and even Charon staggers, reaches out for support. Max stares in through the glass as an alarm begins blaring, watches in what is almost slow-motion as the Enclave agents crumple to the ground, as his father stumbles over to the door, over to him, and presses his hands flat against the glass, right below where Max’s is opposite.

 

“Run,” he chokes, “ _Run._ ”

 

He collapses, and Max’s heart drops with him.

 

“No...no, no, _no—_ ”

 

No. That can’t—no, _no—_

 

“Dad!” He lifts his fists and starts slamming them against the glass, the glass between him and the only family he has left, the glass that just _won’t fucking break._ “Dad! No, please, _Dad!_ ”

 

“He’s...gone,” Li whispers, and Charon whirls to her.

 

“What happened?"

 

“He...he caused an overload...he sacrificed himself to keep them from the purifier...to buy us time...we have to go, we have to—”

 

“ _Charon!"_

 

Somehow Max has toned Charon’s _name_ as an order, as a demand for him to come, and Charon’s returns to him immediately.

 

“Get him out! Now!”

 

Charon _can’t._ He can’t. His head aches, briefly, as Max uselessly pounds away, and then it dulls, replaced with the need to get Max to safety.

 

Charon grabs his arm. “Max, Max, we must go!”

 

“No!” Max yanks away, pushes Charon back. “Dad! Charon, get him out! _Now!_ ”

 

Instead, Charon opens the power armor from the back and drags Max out, throwing him over his shoulder and sprinting down to the stairs to follow Li out.

 

“No, you fucking bastard!” Max screams, striking at Charon’s back, yanking at his hair. “You fucking—Charon! Charon, _stop!"_

 

Charon doesn’t say anything, pulls him down through the manhole in the corner of the memorial and deposits him down on the floor as he scrambles to close it.

 

“You piece of fucking _shit!_ ” Max jumps back to his feet and swings his arm with the frighteningly clear intent to land a blow, and Charon catches his hand.

 

There’s a tense second where they both remain still, panting, staring at each other, and then Charon squeezes Max’s fingers painfully tight.

 

“Physical violence invalidates the contract,” he says, and throws Max’s hand back at him.

 

“I'll rip your fuckin’ contract—” Max hisses, grabbing it out of his armor, and Charon snatches it away before he can do a thing, clutches it protectively against his chest and turns to the side, keeping his eyes trained on Max until he's sure Max won't try to get it back.

 

 _He’s just lost his father. He’s just not thinking straight._ That has to be it, because Max...no. Max wouldn’t hit him, wouldn't hurt him. Max _promised_ he would never do something like that, and Charon trusts Max’s promises.

 

Max doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t comment on it at all. Instead he continues to seethe and simply turns to the scientists instead, growling, “This is your fucking fault!” at Dr. Li, who bares her teeth at him.

 

“No. This is no one’s fault. James made a choice. He made a choice to save you, to save _us._ ”

 

“No. He can’t be fuckin’ dead. He can’t be. He can’t—”

 

Dr. Li walks forward, grabs him by the shoulders, and shakes him just once. “Max! Max, listen to me! He’s gone! He’s…” Her voice cracks, falters. “He’s gone. He is. I’m sorry, but he is.”

 

Max’s mouth falls open, like he’s trying to say something, and then instead he buries his face in her shoulder and starts to sob. “No! No, no, please, he...no…”

 

“You can’t do this,” she whispers, voice as soft as they’ve ever heard it. “Not now. Not yet. You have to keep it together until we get out of here. This tunnel leads to safety, okay? You and the ghoul are the only ones with weapons. You need to help the rest of us get through this. Do you hear me?”

 

“I can’t...I can’t…”

 

Dr. Li pulls away, and Max cries harder at the loss of contact.

 

“You _have_ to. Stop crying. You have to stop crying.”

 

Max does, immediately; shuts himself down faster than Charon has ever seen him do before. With blank, bleary eyes, he grabs his assault rifle, storms ahead, and takes out every Enclave soldier they come across before Charon even has a chance. When Charon finally tries to touch his shoulder, tries to stop him, Max whirls around, curses at Charon like he never has.

 

“Fucker! Stupid son of a bitch! Don’t even fucking look at me!”

 

“Hey!” Li says, glaring at Max while Charon backs away and lowers his gaze to the ground.

 

“He was trying to get you to listen to _me._ We need to stop. Garza needs medical attention. His heart—”

 

“What does he need? Stimpaks? They’re in his bag. Get them, Charon. We can’t _stop._ ”

 

“I'm not leaving him behind,” Li snaps, and Max scoffs.

 

“Then I'll leave  _you_ behind.” He stops, brow furrowing. “Just…”

 

“Yeah,” Li says, grabbing the stimpaks Charon holds out, and Max crouches down, clutches at his head and shakes it.

 

Charon notices out of the corners of his eyes, but what can he do? He isn't even allowed to be looking.

 

So with his contract tucked safely into his own armor, Charon just doesn't do anything at all.

 

**x**

 

Max apologizes later, softly, almost under his breath, as he stands in the corner of the Citadel's clinic.

 

Charon doesn’t react, just stares up at the ceiling as the doctor finishes reluctantly tending to the gash in his side while Brotherhood of Steel soldiers peering in every few minutes, suspicious of the ghoul they never agreed on letting in.

 

“I didn’t...I didn’t mean…”

 

“There,” the doctor says, making a face as he peels his gloves off. “You’re all set.”

 

Charon slowly, slowly sits up, wincing, and pulls his shirt back on, clasping his hands in his lap as Max comes closer.

 

“Please...please say something, do what you want, I’m—”

 

“You tried to strike me.” His voice is steady, but not the rest of him.

 

Max is visibly overcome with regret, biting his lip. “I wouldn’t have! I swear! I didn’t mean to...I wouldn’t have…”

 

“It is nothing.” He stands, tugs his armor back on, and Max steps closer, reaches out.

 

“Please, Charon...you can't...I love you," he whispers. "I love you. But he just _died_ , I didn’t...I’m sorry…”

 

Charon wants to step away, does _not_ want to be touched, but he allows it, allows Max to wrap his arms around him and bury his face in his chest.

 

Max had just admitted it. His father just died, and he didn’t mean it. He isn’t thinking straight.

 

Neither is Charon, however, as they step back into the hall, as Charon is surrounded by dozens of people in the exact same armor the Outcasts had been wearing, his head far clearer than it had been on the way in as he simply trailed along behind Max with his head down, holding his side tightly and trying not to stumble.

 

They're a different color, though...of course...this isn't them. But surely they would do the exact same thing if given the chance. Charon has walked himself right into another imprisonment.

 

Max touches his arm, and he starts. A shiver goes through him, and he's being stared at, watched—they'll do the same goddamn thing—they'll grab him and beat him and prod at him and experiment under lights so bright he can't fully open his eyes—God, they had been so _bright_ —

 

_‘I know what you are.’_

 

Bailey's voice, right in his ear, startles a strangled, tormented sound out of his throat.

 

What he is? What did that mean? What—

 

“The hell is wrong with you?” Max demands, bringing him back, and he realizes he's shaking. His eyes start darting around again, landing on each member of the Brotherhood in the hallway while he clenches his fists.

 

Finally he admits, “I...am having trouble.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

Charon blinks hard, and he doesn't know how to explain that armor alone is making him panic, that he can only think of the Outcasts, of how cold and awful those gloved hands felt wrapped around his neck, squeezing and choking and then beating him into the floor.

 

He doesn't want to be here anymore. He needs—he needs out of here, _now_.

 

“I do not feel good,” Charon begins, and Max scoffs.

 

“Why? Did your dad just die, too?”

 

Charon crosses his arms, tries to steady his breathing, but he can't. “I need air. Please, I need—”

 

“I need you to stop acting like you're turning feral! Calm down before they fuckin’ hurt you or something!”

 

“ _Max,_ ” Charon says, laying a hand over his heaving chest, and Max looks him over with a suddenly soft expression, mumbles apologies as he grabs Charon's arm and leads him up the stairs and outside.

 

Charon takes several deep, gasping breaths and sits on the closest stone bench.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Max is saying, standing in front of him and holding Charon's shoulders, “I'm not mad at you! Honest! I'm just...I'm so angry...but it's not you! It's them, it's—they want me to—I just want to go _home._  We’re just going home, okay? Please tell me what's wrong! I love you, I do!”

 

He's definitely at least a _little_ mad at Charon when Charon leans over and vomits all over his shoes, but he only lets out an exasperated sigh and steps away, grimacing.

 

“Um...feel better?”

 

Charon wraps an arm around his stomach and shakes his head. Max runs his hand through Charon's hair, sighs again, and then cups it against Charon's cheek. “Do you want to go home?”

 

Charon leans into the touch, a bit less shaky, and nods.

 

“Yeah. Me too. Let's get out of here.”

 

**x**

 

It's possibly Charon's fault that Max gets pissed at him again, because he definitely shouldn't have tried bringing James up, even if it was indirectly, even if all he did was ask how Max was feeling. Not so soon, not when it's only been a few hours, just barely one since they'd left the Citadel.

 

What is entirely Max's fault, however, is the boy storming on ahead, twisting through rubble, ordering Charon to stay further back, and then stumbling directly into the path of a group of raiders and their Brahmin-led wagon.

 

No. It's not Max’s fault. Charon should have traveled in front of Max. He should have heard them, should have demanded Max stop—but he can't speak. Max had ordered him to be silent. He's lacking sleep and doesn't even sense danger until it's too late, doesn't see them at all until he turns a corner and hears Max scream.

 

Max, his Max, stands fifteen feet away with a pistol pointed at his head, arms wrenched behind him, heavy hands settled on his shoulders.

 

Four of them. Outnumbered.

 

There's the sound of a pebble bouncing across other rock, kicked by someone's shoe, behind him, and he whirls to face three others, takes a step back and lays a hand on his shotgun.

 

“Don't do it,” one of them says, and he sounds bored, like he really doesn't care one way or another; the assault rifle at Charon's chest, however, holds him still. Another taps a baseball bat on the gravel with a delighted grin on her face, and the third cocks his pistol.

 

They look...odd. Different. It's the first thing Charon notices. Something isn't right, but in the dark, with his already poor vision reduced even further, Charon cannot quite—

 

Footsteps behind him, and he turns just enough to look, tries to keep both groups in his line of sight. A woman, black hair shaved down on one side and the length of her chin on the other, has approached Max, her lips twisted up into some sort of smile.  

 

He hears Max whimper, and her smile only grows.

 

"How come someone as...tiny...as you is traveling all alone?” she asks, tilting her head. “Especially at this time of night…it's dangerous.”

 

Max doesn't say anything, his shaking obvious even at Charon's distance, and Charon shifts his weight, moves just enough to catch her attention, to make one of them adjust their weapon’s aim at him.

 

“Is the ghoul with you? Hm?”

 

Max still stays quiet, and she shrugs. “Then shoot him.”

 

“No!” Max gasps, jerking forward; the ones holding him grab on tighter, snickering.

 

“So...he is. And that means that you...you’re that fabled little vault dweller, aren't you?” She hums, scanning over him. “Well now. You’re just adorable, aren't you? I didn't think you'd be so cute! Look at you.”

 

“He looks like a little girl,” one of them snorts, and she laughs, reaching out to stroke a hand through Max’s hair.

 

“That's not a bad thing. A lot of people like that…”

 

Charon stiffens. His eyes move back to the three at his other side, then again to the rest.

 

They're not raiders. They're _not raiders_. They're not—

 

His mouth opens, closes again when he finds he still can't speak.

 

“God, did you really  _piss_ yourself? And here I thought you were supposed to be brave!"

 

He blinks, watching as the woman grabs Max’s chin and tilts it up, laughing, and he growls as loud as he can, tries to bring the attention back to him.

 

“I want him,” she says, eyes still on Max, "but put the ghoul down.”  

 

“No, please!” Max shouts, flailing. “No, I'll do anything! What do you want? What do you want? Please don't!”

 

She holds a hand up, halts the group members. “I want all the pretty caps you're going to get me.”

 

“M-money? You—you can have all of my caps! All of them! My gun, his armor—his armor is—”

 

She laughs, shaking her head. “No, no. Not enough.”

 

“His armor is special! It's from the war! O-one of a kind! You—you can have it!”

 

“Oh? Special?”

 

Max nods frantically. “It's stealth armor. Sh-show them, Charon!”  

 

Slowly, as the weapons train closer on him, Charon moves his hand to click at his wrist. They can still see him, of course, because he'd foolishly left his helmet off to breathe easier after what had happened at the Citadel, but he wouldn't dare do anything with Max's life in such immediate danger, anyways.

 

The woman watches in obvious interest, humming. “That’s nice. Very nice.”

 

“You can have it...just please...just don't hurt him...let me go...o-okay?”

 

“The thing is,” she says, “I can have it either way. And it'll be a lot easier to get it off of him if he's dead, so—”

 

“Just give it to them!” Max orders, and Charon grunts, wincing as he briefly resists—what kind of stupidity is this? Max is asking him to take off the only protection he has against them!—and then growling under his breath as he unzips the armor, starts to remove it.

 

Paper crinkles at his chest. His heart thuds painfully, and he stops, inwardly panics, shoves the envelope he'd momentarily forgotten he was in possession of into his shirt in some awkward swipe of his arm that has them adjusting their weapons again.

 

He pulls the armor off, drops it into the sand at his feet. 

 

“Th-there, see?” Max manages. “See? You don't have to hurt him. You don't.”

 

She looks at him for a moment, then saunters over to pick the armor up, humming thoughtfully.

 

“It's nice,” she says finally, nodding.

 

Then she looks up at Charon, expression unreadable.

 

“What's in your shirt?”

 

Charon doesn't react, not visibly. His heart pounds again, quickens his breathing, and then she moves, reaches out to him, and he reels back.

 

“Oh, come on, big guy,” she says, looking him over with a glint in her eyes. “You can't be scared of me. What are you hiding?”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Max whimpers, and by now he's surely realized his mistake. He hadn't known where Charon was keeping it. He hadn't known this would happen. How could he possibly have known?

 

She ignores him, still watching Charon. “Give it to me, or I'll take it.”

 

Charon takes another jerky step back, eyes darting, and then hears two steps behind him, tries to turn just before he feels something heavy slam into his upper back, right between his shoulders—the baseball bat, he thinks faintly, and hears Max cry out for him—knocking the breath from him and sending him to his hands and knees.

 

The world blurs, tunnels out. It's too painful to heave in a breath, too painful to focus on anything else until it's too late as the woman reaches down and yanks at his shirt until the envelope falls free, flutters to the sand.

 

Charon chokes and crawls forward, reaches for it. His fingers fold around it, his life, _Max’s safety_ —and then the bat strikes him again, across the back of his head, and he's out cold before he even hits the ground.

 

Max shrieks, struggling with renewed strength, and she grabs the envelope, opens it and takes out the contents, squinting at the mostly illegible writing on it.

 

“What the hell is this?” she demands, returning to Max, and Max wails.

 

“It's mine! It's mine! Please don't! Don't!”

 

“Tell me what it is before I rip it in half,” she says, calmly placing her hands in the position to do so, and Max cries out again before exclaiming, “His contract!”

 

She relaxes her arms, doesn't look so intent on destroying it anymore. “Contract? What does that mean?”

 

Max slumps forward, tears pouring down his face, and she lifts his chin up and repeats herself.

 

“I can't...I can't...it’s mine...he's mine, please…”

 

“He might still be alive over there. Don't make me make sure he's not.”

 

Max violently shudders, shakes his head, and mumbles, defeated, “He...he...protects me.”

 

“That's what this is for? He's, what, your slave?”

 

“No...he's—”

 

“You've got three seconds before I have his head bashed in. Three, _two_ —”

 

“He's my slave,” Max whimpers, sniffling. “He...he d-does what I tell h-him to.”  

 

“Because of this…contract?”

 

Max nods, sobs, and she steps back, looking the contract over. “Hm.” Finally she folds it, tucks it in her armor, and snaps her fingers. “Put the ghoul in the back. I'm interested in hearing what he has to say about it.”

 

“If he wakes up,” one of them says, nudging Charon roughly with a foot. "There's sure a lot of blood.”

 

“Give him a stimpak.”

 

“Really? Waste one on him?” He shrugs, grabbing Charon's arms and dragging him over to the wagon, needing two others to help lift him up and then jabbing a stimpak into his neck.  

 

“No, don't, he's mine, that's my contract, please, I can't—” Max pants, starting to kick again, and the man shoves him down to his knees, then face-first into the sand.

 

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth before I shut it for you. Got me?”

 

“Please, please, please, _please_ …”

 

The man clenches his fist in Max’s hair and yanks, brings his knee up hard into Max’s back. “You want me to cut your tongue out? Huh? I’ll fuckin’—”

 

“Hey now,” their boss scolds, and takes one knee beside Max. “He's just scared.” She cups Max's chin and pulls it up, smiling at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes, makes her look even more terrifying.

 

“Isn't that right? Hm?”

 

“No, no, I want—please, I want—” Max sputters, trying to pull away, and she puts her thumb over his mouth, humming.

 

“Ssh. We’re not gonna hurt you. We’re gonna make sure you stay nice and pretty. Nobody wants to pay for damaged merchandise...not if they didn't cause it.”

 

This can't be happening. It can't be. Not after he'd just lost his fucking father—not Charon, too, not the contract, not this—

 

Max swears in frustration and bites down on her finger as hard as he can. She lets out a screech and jerks back, and then blankly stares down at her thumb as blood runs from the inflicted wound.

 

The man behind Max strikes the back of his head hard enough he sees stars and shoves him down again until the sand is suffocating him, getting in his nose and mouth and—

 

“No.”

 

With that one word, that order, the man pulls Max back up, and he coughs and spits as she grabs his face again with her other hand.

 

“They'll beat that right out of you where you’re going,” she says, almost coos, and Max tries not to tremble any harder, tries to keep his voice steady.

 

“...Wh-where?”

 

She smirks again, smears the blood all over Max's mouth and then leans in, keeps Max still as he tries to pull away.

 

“Paradise Falls,” she purrs, “but...you already knew that, didn't you?”  

 

And then she stands, barking out orders. Max's wrists are tied behind him, his ankles bound together, and then he's thrown right in beside Charon, lands in the sickeningly large puddle of red that's trailed from the back of his head and soaked into the wood, blood, there's so much blood, and Charon…

 

Charon isn't his anymore.

 

The wagon jerks into motion. Max chokes and heaves, cries out Charon's name, and receives only the slavers’ laughter ringing in his ears as a response.

 

**x**

 

 _"Three Dog here with some bad, bad news, kiddies. It seems the Enclave in their ever-increasin' reign of terror has taken over James's project, the water purifier I told you about not too long ago, the very thing he came out here to do...and with it, his life. That's right. I'm real sorry to report it, and I never woulda imagined it happenin', but 101's father has fallen. Sacrificed himself to save his son, a better man than I can hope to be. The rest of the scientists, 101, and his ghoul buddy disappeared, and, last I heard, with some old friends of mine. Most importantly, safe. He's sure gonna need a place to recover after what he's been through. You know I'll be back at you as soon as I know more, like why these Enclave bastards suddenly decided they needed a purifier that ain't even operational and were ready to murder a good man and an innocent woman to get it, but for now...this has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And sometimes...sometimes it hurts bad._ _And now...well, actually...now we're gonna have a few minutes of silence."_


	28. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Thank you always to [nukemeh](http://nukemeh.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr for letting me bounce ideas of'a them and giving me some cool ones of their own to implement! They've got some wicked cool art on there! :D
> 
> WARNING for just a generally intense chapter, a couple very uncomfortable comments/threats/conversations that don't actually lead to anything, and some...shaming (???) talk about self-harm which could be upsetting.

Tears are still quietly trailing from Max’s eyes when the wagon rolls to a halt hours later, one of the slavers ordering another to make a fire for food. It's sometime before morning, but he's long lost track of how far they've traveled, or where they are. All he can do is curl himself close against Charon, murmur to him and beg him to open his eyes (and cry harder when he doesn't respond), and listen to the conversations the slavers have around them.

 

They were looking for the escaped slaves behind the Temple of the Union, he concludes, though the name is never mentioned outright. He hears them say that for somewhere that has a map supposedly leading to it, it's particularly hard to find, and then the woman who leads them all sends three away to continue the search with a pack of supplies and an order to return to Paradise Falls in four days.

 

When she reached into the wagon to grab the bag, her eyes met Max’s, and she smirked.

 

“Wishin’ you stayed inside till mornin’ right about now, aren't you?”

 

He'd looked away, but it was no less painful looking down at himself than facing her. His fault, entirely. He and Charon could have avoided them, could have gone a different way, and headed straight home.

 

Instead, he'd led them into this. He'd led _Charon_ into this.

 

Paradise Falls. He hasn't heard much about the place, only that's home to the worst of the Wasteland, and anyone else who thinks slaving, of all things, is the way to go.

 

They're going to hurt him. They're going to kill Charon, if they haven't already, and he's going to be alone and as helpless as he always was and _alone_.

 

“Alright,” she says now, pulling the back of the wagon down and grabbing Max’s arm, and Max whines, tries to pull away, to bury his face back into Charon’s chest where he can try to pretend this isn't happening.

 

“Oh, knock it off,” she snaps, lightly smacking him, and pulls him up to sit with his feet dangling down towards the ground. “How about some food, hm? You’re a little too thin for anyone's liking.”

 

Max's stomach twists, and he shakes his head, lowers it to look down at his bloody, raw wrists.

 

“Oh, you've gotta stop that,” she says. “You’re not going to get away. Why fight? It'll just make things worse for you. And now you've got all those ugly marks!” She clicks her tongue, and Max whimpers softly.

 

“I want to go,” he says. “Please. You can't.”

 

“Well, we are going! So eager. It's cute.”

 

“ _Home_...I want to go—”

 

“I heard your name is Max," she interrupts. "That's cute, too. Like a little puppy. You can call me Mercy.”

 

At the sheer irony, Max laughs, humorlessly. She smiles, then cups his chin and inspects his face. “How old are you really? Twelve? All you've got’s a little peach fuzz. You’re just a little baby. You're not twenty.”

 

“Yes I am!” Max growls, trying halfheartedly to bite her again, but he's tired, and she easily pulls away.

 

“I'm going to put a collar on you even before we get there if you don't stop acting like a bad dog,” she says. “Nobody’s gonna believe that. I sure don't. That's good, though. The younger the better.”

 

"You...you sell children,” Max says, disgusted, and she pats him on the shoulder.

 

“I help them find better homes, and get paid for it.”

 

“Fuckin’ sick piece of—”

 

She slaps him across his ear, reducing his hearing on that side to nothing but a loud ringing, and says, “Shush now. Do you want some water? I'll give you some if you start acting better.”

 

Max doesn't respond, wincing. He won't drink a goddamn thing they give him. He isn't that stupid, and he certainly isn't that desperate. He turns his head, shakes it again, and she chuckles, shoves Charon's leg out of her way in order to get to a bag.

 

Charon groans, very softly, the first sound he's made, and Max gasps, struggles to turn around so fast that he starts to fall right off the wagon.

 

“Charon!”

 

Mercy catches him, snickers, and then pushes him back, reaching for Charon's hair, grabbing a handful, and yanking. Charon makes another little noise, and so she takes Charon’s ankle and drags him off into the sand.

 

Charon lands hard on his side and groans again, much louder, curling into himself, and Max squirms, exclaims, “Please don't hurt him, please! Please, he didn't do anything wrong!”

 

“Jesus,” one of the others pipes up, “why do you care—no fuckin’ way. Are you a ghoulfucker?”

 

Max's heart drops, and he doesn't want to imagine how much worse they would treat Charon if they knew. “I-I—no—I just—please!”

 

“Don't make me gag you,” Mercy says, grabbing Max's cheeks and squeezing. “Shut your little mouth.”

 

Max whimpers again but stays quiet, and she smiles. “Good boy. Now…” She turns her attention back to Charon, nudging him roughly.

 

“Ghoul. Hey.”

 

“Ugh,” Charon responds, clutching the back of his head with both hands, and Mercy yanks him up by his shirt, leaning him against the wagon’s wheel.

 

“Look alive,” she says, and one of the slavers laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard while Charon struggles to raise his head, grimacing.

 

“Charon…” Max murmurs, and Charon doesn't seem to hear him, groaning again when Mercy apparently loses her patience and grabs his chin, pulling it up and shoving his contract into his face.

 

“What is this, hm?”

 

Charon blinks, too slowly, and Max is all too aware that something is really, really wrong. The way Charon's eyes look, so completely out of focus, like he has no idea what’s going on—he looks just like he did at the outpost. His back and his neck are covered in dried blood, and oh, God, he's really hurt, and it's all Max’s fault _again_ —

 

“I…” Charon starts, hoarsely, making a weak grab for his contract and then sagging back again. “I...I...serve you...for...good...or ill.”

 

“What?”

 

Charon frowns and looks around, looks right past Max without acknowledging he's there at all, and reaches up to rub his head again. “I...serve…”

 

“No, I heard you, but what does that mean? This contract...you're a slave? I own you, now? Is that it?”

 

Charon's eyes flutter, and he wets his lips and squints up at her. “I serve...I…ah...I…”

 

“Charon, God, please—” Max tries to move, tries to drop himself down beside him, but one of the slavers holds him still.

 

“Not too bright, huh?” Mercy asks, and Max scowls.

 

“No! You hurt him! He needs another stimpak!”

 

“We already wasted one on him. Hell, if this is how he's gonna be—” She pulls out her pistol, puts it to Charon’s forehead, and Charon's eyes slide closed again. “—we might as well put him out of his misery.”

 

“No! No! Please don't! I'll do anything, please! Please, I'll —I'll stop talking, I'll be so good, just please, please don't. He just needs help. He—” He looks around, frantically, and does a desperate gesture towards the river. “The water! The water will make him better!”

 

Mercy snorts, glances around at the others, and then quirks an eyebrow at Max. “The _water?_ ”

 

“The radiation! Radiation heals him! Please, just bring him some water and—”

 

“I have a better idea,” she says, smiling. She snaps her fingers, gestures at Charon, and tells them, “Pick him up. Throw him in. Either it really heals him, or he drowns. Either way, problem solved.”

 

“Please don’t,” Max says, his voice cracking, and one of them pushes him back as two others yank Charon up by his arms and drag him over to the river’s edge. Max cries out for him, tries to rouse him, and then watches in horror as they toss him into the water, as Charon doesn’t move at all as the water closes up over his head.

 

“Stop! Please, don’t—”

 

“What the _fuck_ is your deal with him?” the one closest to him asks, grabbing his chin. “They’ve gotta be fuckin’, Mercy, ain’t no way he’s this hung up on him otherwise.”

 

“Fuck you!” Max screeches, and tries to bite him, too; with his hands and ankles tied, it seems to be the only thing he can do to fight back. “I love him! Fuck you!”

 

The slaver cackles, jerks his hand back and shoves Max down. “I knew it! God, nasty little—”

 

“You _love_ him?” Mercy echoes, almost incredulous, and Max sneers, although he knows too well it's information he should never have let slip.

 

“Have you fucked him? Better not have. That’d make you near impossible to sell…”

 

“I’ll fuckin’  _kill_ you, I swear to—”

 

Charon suddenly jerks upright with a desperate gasp, flails his limbs in a panic, and then drags himself halfway back up onto dry land, coughing up water.

 

“Charon!” Max is delighted, even more so when Charon raises his head like he's finally coherent, tries to look around before his arms give out and he collapses.

 

“Max—” he gasps, and Max starts to cry again, wriggling. Mercy gestures for the closest man to hold him down, and takes one knee beside Charon, grabbing his hair.

 

“So you do need to breathe,” she says. “Weird. Not as dead as you look, huh?”

 

“Max…” Charon says again, his eyes wide, and as Mercy yanks his head up, as his vision clears and he sees Max, the wagon, the slavers, he remembers. Too suddenly, everything crashes back, and he looks up at Mercy, at his _employer_ , with something akin to terror.

 

No. Not like this. Not now.

 

“Don't look so scared,” she coos, and he blinks once, shuts himself down, hides it inside like he always did before...before Max...oh, God, _Max_...

 

“Wow,” she says, releasing him. “Sit up.”

 

Charon does so, limbs not quite responding as quickly as they should, and then he lets out a groan and clutches at his head again. _Fuck_ that hurts...it hurts...he can't think straight and it fucking _hurts_.

 

“Oh, so sorry,” Mercy says. “Do you need another soak?” And she easily shoves Charon off-balance and onto his back, right into the water again, chuckling as Charon scrambles upright, spitting and trying to huff the water out of his nose.   

 

“Does water really heal you?”

 

“—adequate,” Charon mutters, and looks up at her again. “Ah...may I get up?”

 

“Fuck,” she laughs, crossing her arms. “Are you...really asking for permission? Holy shit. You’re totally mine.”

 

“No! He’s _mine!_ You fuckin’—” Max is cut off as the man beside him clamps his hand down over his mouth, and Charon growls softly, fingers digging into the sand.

 

“Hey, eyes on me, ghoul,” she says, and Charon has to obey, upper lip curled.

 

She smirks down at him, then crouches down to meet his eyes. “What is this contract? And if you say ‘I serve you’ one more time, I’m gonna slap you.”

 

“Physical violence invalidates the contract,” Charon says through clenched teeth.

 

“Oh? Shame.”

 

Yes, what a _shame_. “You...hold my contract. As long as it is so, until one of us dies or it is given or sold to another, you are my employer, and for good or ill, I serve you. I will do as you command. I will fight for you in combat. I will—”

 

Max lets out an awful, high-pitched wail, and Charon's attention is immediately back on him, on the man holding him with his free hand snaked around Max’s waist.

 

“I will…” Charon winces, shakes his head and tries to concentrate. Max is no longer his responsibility, and no longer his to serve. If he were anyone else, Charon would have already killed him. “I will protect your life with my own at all cost. I will obey your wishes to the best of my abilities, and—”

 

“Enough. I get it.” She hums, looking him over. “You’re the best slave I could ever ask for, aren’t you?”

 

“I am _not_ a—”

 

Max manages to free himself enough to cry out Charon’s name, and Charon doesn’t recall getting to his feet, only knows that he’s taken three steps towards them and startled the slaver beside Max enough that he moves away when Mercy grabs the back of his shirt and yanks.

 

“Did I fucking say you could get up? Huh?”

 

Charon stops, looks back at her, and shakes his head again, dropping back down to his knees.

 

“You’re not his anymore, are you? No. You're mine. Right?”

 

With a sharp exhale, Charon nods, keeping his head tilted downwards and his mouth shut despite the urge to protest.

 

“Yeah. That’s damn fuckin’ right. I ain’t gonna have you threatenin’ my people. And you _won't_ kill them. That’s an order. And you have to follow my orders, don’t you?”

 

Another nod. She snaps her fingers, and he assumes that means she wants a verbal answer, and so he takes a breath and murmurs, “Yes.”

 

She snaps her fingers again, and he watches her, uncertain of what she wants. She scoffs, grabs his hair again, and says, "Doesn't sound to me like how a slave should be addressing me, does it?”

 

Ah. Of course. He sets his jaw, sighs, and says, “No, Mistress. Forgive me.”

 

She smiles and clicks her tongue. “Much better.”

 

“But you do not need him.”

 

She snorts. “Excuse me?”

 

Charon doesn't immediately respond. He shouldn't be speaking out of turn, shouldn't be upsetting his employer...shouldn't have gotten so goddamn comfortable. This was bound to happen eventually, and he always, always knew it would.

 

Not so soon, though. He never would have thought it would happen right now.

 

“Ah...forgive me. May I have permission to speak, Mistress?” he asks, the words still all too familiar, and she laughs.

 

“Sure. I guess I can humor you.”

 

“You do not need him, and...I believe it best to let him go...”

 

“Oh? You believe? And why is that?"

 

“He is simply useless,” Charon says, and Max makes another heartbroken noise. “He is rebellious. I am not. I can never be. I will serve whomever holds my contract indefinitely. But he will fight you. He will never…” He pauses, swallows hard. “He will never be as obedient as I am, and it is pointless to wish for anyone to be.”

 

“Stop, Charon, please…” Max begs, and Charon pointedly avoids looking in his direction.

 

“Oh?” She reaches into her pocket and lights up a cigarette, snorting. “Right. And I should just believe you?”

 

“I am unable to lie to you,” Charon says, and she wanders over to Max, blows smoke in his face and causes him to choke.

 

“Did you fuck pretty boy over here?”

 

Charon locks eyes with Max, can't stand to see how distraught he is, and then hesitantly shakes his head.

 

Mercy chuckles. “Good, good. That's good news. Nobody wants tainted meat. Or little babies who piss all over themselves.”

 

Max flushes, snarling at her, and she blows him a kiss. “Even cuter when you're mad! Jackson, why don't you give him a little something and go get him cleaned up while we’re stopped? We'll find him something else to wear."

 

Charon glares at the man who approaches Max again with a smirk on his ugly, scarred face.

 

“No rush,” he purrs, and Max spits on him.

 

“Get away from me, you fucker! Don't fuckin’ touch me! I'll kill you! I'll kill you! Ow!” He gasps at the sudden jab of pain in his arm, and then watches Jackson’s face twist into a smirk as suddenly his vision doubles, and the strength goes from his limbs. He groans, slumping forward, and is helpless to stop Jackson from picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder.

 

“Charon—” Max manages, trying to place where the ghoul is, but everything is just so goddamn blurry and spinning and God, he wants to be sick.

 

Charon watches with a blank expression, and then inhales sharply and holds his head again, looking over at Mercy. “Mistress, my head…”

 

“What about it?”

 

“I...believe it would do me well to retrieve more water.”

 

She glances over at the two beside the river, and says, “I'm going to eat. Make sure he doesn't let the kid drown.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.” Charon turns, scowling, and comes right up behind Jackson, looming over his shoulder as he sets Max down and strokes his fingers over Max's chest.

 

“Watch your hands,” Charon hisses, “or you will lose them.”

 

“Threatening me?” Jackson hums, taking the knife from his side. “Not what a slave should be doing.”

 

“I am not a slave.”

 

"You sure get on your knees like one."

 

“Charon, please,” Max mumbles, reaching up to him, and Jackson smacks his hands down.

 

Charon takes a step forward, then stops. He can't kill them, and injuring him would only bring both him and Max more pain, and...and it really doesn’t matter, does it? He shouldn’t still be caring about Max, about...about a past employer. He doesn’t matter anymore. Charon doesn’t need to worry about or protect him anymore.

 

No, he can't do that. He can't pretend Max doesn't matter, can't lie to himself. If nothing else, he needs to return the favor for making him not miserable for the first time in his life.

 

And really, that isn't it at all. He wasn't just _not miserable_. He was...he was okay. He was as close to safe and content and  _happy_  as he ever has been, or ever will be again, and Max deserves far better than this as an end.

 

“Got somethin’ to fuckin’ say?” Jackson asks, and Charon shakes his head, looking down at Max for a moment and then turning away with a wince when Jackson slices his shirt off.

 

“What the _fuck?_ ” Jackson hisses, looking Max over and then standing up, letting Max fall back. “Mercy!”

 

Max flails, weakly, and Charon drops to one knee and grabs him, cradles him in his arms as he gasps and coughs.

 

“Ch-Charon—” he mumbles, trembling, and God, he’s so _small_ , and he curls towards Charon, presses his face into Charon’s chest in search of comfort or warmth or _safety_ , none of which Charon can provide.

 

“Why are you yelling?” Mercy demands, approaching them, and Jackson shakes his head.

 

“The fuckin’ kid. Just...look at him.”

 

Mercy frowns, turns to Charon, and gestures at him. “Put him on his feet.”

 

Charon obeys, holding Max under his arms as he sags, head lolling back, and Mercy scoffs as she approaches, grabbing Max’s wrist.

 

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” Mercy looks him over, yanks his pants down, and takes a step back as Max wails and tries to cover himself with his still-bound hands.

 

“What the fuck happened to you?” she demands, and Max starts to cry.

 

Charon squeezes his arms, shifting, and wants so desperately to hold Max closer, to wrap him up and take him someplace safe where he'll never be hurt again.

 

“You're fuckin’ shredded up!” she says, and drives her fist into Max’s stomach. “You little psycho _bitch!"  
_

 

Max doubles over and chokes, trying to breathe, and when she tries to hit him again, Charon turns, lets her blow fall over his arm instead.

 

“No. Let me see him.” She grabs Max's throat, furious. “You did that to yourself, didn't you? I've seen those on slaves before, when they've been around a while. Nobody even had a goddamn chance with you! You disgusting little fuck! Nobody will want you now!”

 

She pulls away, and Max slumps against Charon, gasping and uncontrollably sobbing. “Charon... _Charon_ …”

 

“Is that why you're fuckin’ a ghoul?” she sneers. “‘Cause no one else could stand to look at you? You fuckin' psycho whore! I can't believe this. All the money we coulda made for you! Goddamn waste!”

 

“I could cut them off,” one of them says, baring his teeth. “Make it look like he was just in an accident. Won't be pretty, but won't be like this.”

 

Max only cries harder, sputtering incoherently, and Charon swallows hard. “You will get far more for my contract than you ever would for him,” he says. “He is useless. You could release him.”

 

“Yeah, I could,” Mercy says, and then suddenly has her pistol in Max's face. “Or I could just kill him. Because you got one damn thing right—he’s fuckin’ useless.”

 

She cocks the weapon, and Charon turns around, presses Max to his chest and holds him tight.

 

The gun nudges into his back instead, and then Mercy growls, “Turn around. Let him go.”

 

Charon steadies himself, digs his feet into the sand, and resists.  

 

Mercy waits a few seconds, then fires her gun off to the side, startling them both. “What are you doing? You have to obey me! Turn around! Let me see him!”

 

Charon shudders and then drops to his knees, overwhelmed, dragging Max with him, and buries his face in Max's hair, gasping.

 

“Let—him—live—” he manages to wheeze, blinded by the pain and unable to raise his head again—not that he wants to. “Or I will...I will...ah...not s-s-submit, I-I will—fight—your—commands—until I...I-I—"

 

The pain overtakes him, and he loses the ability to form coherent thoughts, and still he grabs onto Max, trembles against him and protects the only thing that matters. It hurts, God, it  _hurts,_ and he hasn't refused, hasn't willingly let it go this far in so long, but Max is whimpering, it's all he can hear, and he sinks his teeth down into the back of his hand as tears run down his face and still holds himself there and _protects_.

 

“You can't be fuckin’ serious,” Mercy laughs. “You—what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you having a fuckin’ seizure? Knock it off! Hey! _Stop!_ ”

 

 _Stop._ It's the only word he really hears, and only vaguely. The order takes hold, and slowly, slowly, the agony starts to fade away. Charon is left panting and shivering, unable to move, unable to hear or see. His vision is black, and he lets out a small whimper, feels Max too still and so small under him as he slowly, slowly comes back.

 

He blinks hard, struggling, and finally sees the vaguest outline of Max's hand stretched out. He grabs it, squeezes, fights to catch his breath and holds Max tighter.

 

He will protect Max. He will. If it kills him, he will keep this stupid boy alive.

 

 _His_ stupid boy. Or...at least he used to be.

 

“...think he's awake,” he hears, and suddenly a handful of his hair is grabbed, and he's too weak to do anything as he's dragged off into the dirt and kicked straight in the gut.

 

He grunts, curling into himself, and says, “Physical violence—”

 

“I'm over here,” Mercy calls, and he looks up as she approaches him, smiling.

 

“Wasn’t me, so...contract’s still mine. You passed out for a good little while,” she says, “and we’ve decided what we’re gonna do with the kid. But you? I thought you were trained. You were in pain, and you still disobeyed me. Is that what happens when you disobey your contract?”

 

Charon fights to focus, and finally nods, slowly, grimacing. “Yes...Mistress.”

 

“Well, what happens to slaves when they disobey _me_ , is—” She snaps her finger, and another two kicks to his stomach has Charon gasping and twisting onto his other side.

 

“You cannot—” he says, struggling to pull himself up but only able to get to his knees. “You cannot order me to allow myself to be injured!”

 

“Oh? Well, good thing I'm not, then,” Mercy says. “Go on, protect yourself. Try to kill him.”

 

The slaver chuckles and saunters forward, holding up a fist coated in metal and murmuring, “Good luck with that,” before slamming a punch into Charon's jaw.

 

It nearly knocks him back to the ground, spins his vision, but he catches himself—until the slaver brings his heavy, pointed boot up and into his stomach again, and again, and _again_ , until he heaves up bright red onto the sand and cries out.

 

“Stop,” Mercy says, and kneels down beside Charon. “Hey. Don't you dare pass out again. Open your fucking eyes. Next time, I'll drug you so you _can't_ fight back, and have everyone take a swing.” She yanks his chin up, digs her fingernails in, and smirks, wiping away the blood running down.

 

“You do not disobey me. You do _not_ disobey me. Do you hear me? You are _mine._ You don’t care about him anymore. Understood?”

 

“Y-y...yes...Mis...tress…” Charon gasps, squinting up at her.

 

“What’s that?”

 

"...Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Good.” She smiles and pats his head. “Now that that's settled, let's catch you up! Plan is, if we can't get your kid sold, Jackson's gonna have a new play toy! He's been a good second to me...and is probably the only one willing to look past ‘em...since he’ll just be giving him more. Got a thing for knives, that one. Maybe little Max will last longer than the last one, but...hell. He might just kill himself first.”

 

Charon lowers his head, panting, and wonders if he should have simply let Mercy take the shot before. It's quite possible it would have killed Charon, too, and...well. That would have been the best case scenario to come from all of this.

 

He looks around, trying to clear out his vision, and stares over at Max’s motionless body, still just a few yards away, then again tries to get up. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but Mercy notices and says, “Jackson, get the kid. And get him dressed. Don’t wanna fuckin’ look at him anymore.” She steps on Charon’s hand, gently, and smiles at him when he hisses.

 

Jackson whistles happily as he picks Max up, casting a smirk over in Charon’s direction. He sits the boy on the edge of the wagon, pulls a shirt on him, and then pushes him back and slips him into some sort of skirt, chuckling.

 

“He’s real pretty, when you can’t see them,” he says, holding Max too close, and Max’s head lolls back, his eyes closed.

 

“Aww...and so cute when he shuts the fuck up!"

 

Charon closes his eyes. There’s a sting on his shoulder, and he briefly glances up, realizes that the darkness that’s come over his vision isn’t from the beating, but from the clouds rolling in above them.

 

There’s a low clap of thunder in the distance, and Mercy mutters a few curses and grabs Charon’s collar, pulls.

 

“Get up. Wasted half the fuckin' morning already, and now it's gonna rain. Get your stupid fucking rotting ass _up!”_

 

Charon obeys, slowly, with a groan, his arms wrapped tight around his torso, and he staggers a few steps before regaining his balance.

 

“Go. Walk. Let’s go,” she calls to the rest of them, and Charon can only obey, limping on until his employer finds a shelter she deems safe to stay in just as it starts to rain, a small, beaten down shack across a bridge, and thankfully not too close to the rushing water of the river.

 

It’s not often that it really storms, and the rain beats into the shack’s walls, the wind roaring. Charon watches from the corner as the slavers quickly dry the acidic water off of themselves and then settle down, conversing like they’re _normal,_ like they aren’t the scum of the fucking wasteland.

 

“...really didn’t give him that much, you know. He’s just so fuckin’ tiny.”

 

Charon snaps his attention back to them, crossing his arms. Max’s eyes are barely open, and he’s leaned helpless and far too quiet against Jackson’s side.

 

“I mean, look at him. God, he’s so _cute._ ”

 

“Keep your fuckin’ dick in your pants until we’re sure he’s not gettin’ us anything,” one of them mutters, and Jackson clicks his tongue, wraps his arm around Max’s waist and smirks as Max whimpers softly.

 

Charon slams his fist back into the wall, makes every single one of them jump, and Mercy finally smiles up at him.

 

“Come here, ghoul. No need to stand over there so...brooding."

 

Hands clenched, Charon obeys, stands stiff at her side even as she scoots over, makes room for him on the cot.

 

“ _Sit._ ”

 

Breathing out slowly, Charon sits, and she smiles at him, looks him over.

 

“Pretty handsome, for a zombie,” she says, and he doesn’t react, stares down at Max, who thankfully seems to have fallen asleep again.

 

“Oh, yeah,” the one who’d struck her bat against Charon laughs, and then stops. “Wait, seriously? Gross.”

 

"I didn't say I wanted him, did I? No." 

 

“I bet ten caps his dick already fell off," another says.

 

“Oh?" She gestures at Max. "Then how was he fuckin’ the kid?”

 

“...Fuck,  _ew,_ you think the kid was doin’ _him?_ ”

 

Mercy chuckles and leans too close to Charon, still grinning. “I love a bet," she says. "So?”

 

Charon keeps his gaze fixed ahead, and then sucks in a breath when she reaches over and grabs him.

 

“ _Mistress,_ ” he growls, grabbing her wrist and yanking it away, and amid the scattered chuckling, Charon hears Max let out a small, frightened sound. He looks down, meets Max’s bleary eyes, and hears Max mumble his name.

 

“Oh, hey,” Jackson purrs, stroking Max’s hair out of his face, and Max tries to turn, starts to squirm and push himself away.

 

“Off...no...stop.”

 

“Shush, go back to sleep,” Jackson says, yanking Max roughly back against his side, and Charon leans forward like he’s going to stand.

 

“Ah, ah,” Mercy says, pushing him back, and then, addressing the other, “Fork over those caps.”

 

“Nah, I’m gonna need _proof._ ”

 

Charon tenses, shrinks as Mercy shrugs and reaches for him again, pushing her hand away.

 

“You cannot—” he starts, hoarse, and then Jackson lets out a shriek and shoves Max away, and Charon catches a deep, bloody bite mark before the slaver covers it with a hand, cursing.

 

“Little fuckin’ shit! God, I’ll fuckin—” He lunges over Max, punches him across the face.

 

Charon stands, hisses, and then stops as Mercy grabs his arm and orders, “Sit your rotten ass back down. Now. Jackson, not his fuckin’ face! It’s the only part that’s still pretty!”

 

Max wails, gasping for air and struggling to curl into himself as Jackson aims his blow to his chest, then his stomach, and then grabs him around his throat and squeezes.

 

“Nobody’s gonna fuckin’ buy you,” he spits as Max’s mouth opens and closes and his eyes go wide. “Remember that. You’re as good as mine, and God, just _wait_ till I get my hands on you, you little fucking _whore._ I’ll make you wish you never left your little vault.”

 

“Stop this!” Charon says, and Jackson snorts, looks over at him.

 

“And _you,_ oh—I’m gonna fuck him _right_ in front of you.”

 

Charon snarls, and Jackson laughs, turning back to Max as he flails desperately and leaning closer, pressing his lips to Max’s chin. “You’re even _prettier_ like this.”

 

Charon doesn’t remember getting up, doesn’t remember _disobeying_ (although he supposes she didn’t tell him to _stay_ seated, did she?), only blinks one second, watching, and then blinks again the next, straddling Jackson on the ground with both hands wrapped around his neck.

 

The slavers scatter, standing up, and several of them try to pull him away, but he’s stronger, he’s _stronger,_ he’s going to bring this disgusting piece of filth within an  _inch_ of his life and he’s going to _enjoy it._

 

“Let him go!” Mercy’s voice reaches him, barely, and he swears, digs his teeth into his lip, then the inside of his cheek, struggling to resist, and then—

 

One of them hits him, across the back of his head _again,_ and Charon’s vision explodes into flashing colors, then goes bright white as a pain worse than he’s ever felt before shoots through his head and down his spine, voids every other thought and sensation, his muscles seizing as he collapses onto his side.

 

He can hear screaming, but it doesn't sound like him. Not him _now_ , anyway, with what the radiation did to his vocal cords. He smells blood, and—something else, something medical, and—God, he's so  _scared—_

 

_"No, no. Relax. Don't move...you'll be done before you know it. It's been such a successful procedure thus far! Well...mostly. The procedure, anyway. Surgery's easy, you see, but how you'll react to it...now that's a different story. Hopefully just a little headache..."_

 

So much fear, so much  _pain_ —

 

He’s still violently shaking when he comes back to himself, gasping, and it might be from fear. A deep, cold dread has come over him, and the memory is fading even quicker than it hit him, but—

 

Procedure? What procedure?  _Surgery?_ So long ago...such a faint, faint recollection...oh, his head hurts...

 

His head. All of his headaches...he had thought they were a symptom of the conditioning, but—was there something... _inside_ of him? Inside his head? No, no, that's impossible, he...no, he can't remember. He can't fucking remember. God, what had they done to him?

 

Feeling is returning slowly, and he realizes now that somehow Max has crawled over to his side, his face buried under Charon’s chin as he quietly sobs.

 

“M-M-Max,” Charon says, struggling, and Max moves just enough to look up at him, his lips swollen and bloody, his eyes wide and tearful.

 

“N-no, ssh,” he whispers, “they’re sleepin’...one’s outside, I-I think, I—I—please, my hands!”

 

Charon doesn’t move, his limbs still tingling and mostly numb, and blinks hard, raising his head. Sure enough, all of the slavers have retired to different parts of the shack, put out their bedrolls and laid down. Mercy has the cot, her back turned to Charon, and Charon carefully rests his head beside Max's again.

 

“I...how...how long was I…?”

 

“I don’t know,” Max sniffles. “They hit you and you, I-I don’t know, like, had a seizure or something, and then you got so quiet, I th-thought you died, I-I..please. Please untie me. Charon, untie me. Please. I’ll kill them. I’ll kill everyone but her! You won’t even have to—”

 

Charon manages to reach up, limply dragging his hand along Max’s arm to rest on his shoulder, and then slowly, slowly picks himself up, gets to his knees and stifles a groan. His vision is blurred, still vaguely glowing white around the very edges, but otherwise he seems to be relatively alright, at least enough to take advantage of this moment that might not come again.

 

He stands, holding onto the wall for support, and then takes in the position of all the slavers, maps a way to step through them and scoops Max up, covers his mouth when he whimpers and gets to the door, setting him down on his feet.

 

Max doubles over, grabbing at his stomach, and Charon gently pushes his hands away, pulls Max’s shirt up to reveal dark bruising. He presses down over Max's ribs, confirms that thankfully nothing seems to be broken, and then orders the boy to stay before carefully, quietly opening the door and slipping out. He's more than ready to put the slaver keeping guard out, but as he scans the area, he finds it empty.

 

A chance. He has a chance. _Max_ has a chance.

 

Charon takes a long, deep breath, then reaches in and grabs Max, snatches one of the pistols from beside a sleeping slaver and a canteen, and darts back outside.

 

“You must go,” he whispers into Max’s ear, placing him on his feet and holding his arm until he is steady. “Now. Go. Take this.” He pushes the pistol into Max’s grip, puts the strap of the canteen over Max’s shoulder, then settles his hand in Max’s hair for just a moment.

 

God, he will miss him. More than anything.

 

“Charon…” Max breathes, and Charon shakes his head.

 

“Go. Now. Run. Do not stop until you are safe. I am uncertain where we are, but Megaton cannot be far. Anywhere, Max. Find anywhere safe. Find weapons, and armor."

 

“Please—” Max tries to reach out to him, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I can kill them, I can—”

 

“You are weak,” Charon says, “and without armor, and injured. You cannot take that chance.”

 

“Then—then let them, I don’t want—I can’t just—”

 

“You misunderstand,” Charon says, lowering his voice. “She could make _me_ kill you, and I will not...have that on my conscience. This is not an option. You are going. So _go._ ”

 

“But—but I love you!”

 

There's a moment, just briefly, as Charon opens his mouth, that the words are at the tip of his tongue, that they nearly slip out without his consent. He has to pause, because...he can't really feel that way, can he? No. It's impossible. He wants to tell Max what the boy wants to hear, not what he needs to hear.

 

And so instead, Charon grabs his wrist, digs his nails in until they draw blood, and says, “Forget me.”

 

Max whimpers, staring up at him. The rain is surely stinging his skin, but he remains unflinching, unblinking, watching Charon as if he expects something more.

 

But there is nothing more. It's all Charon can do not to grab Max and pull him into a hug, to kiss him, but he can't.

 

“Forget me,” he says again, and shoves Max forward. “Go. You must go.”

 

“N-no...no…”

 

“Go! Or I will tie you down again and leave you for them.”

 

Max whimpers, holding his wrist, and then holds the pistol tighter. “I'll kill her, I’ll—”

 

Charon grabs Max's arm again, more gently. “Then I will kill you,” he whispers, and Max deflates, stumbles forward and wraps his arms around Charon.

 

“Please!” he sobs, “Please! You can't leave me. You can't. You're all I have. I love you. I love you, Charon! And I know you love me back! Please...please just...please…”

 

Charon stares off to the side, then closes his eyes. The last affection he will ever receive...how is it so hard to say goodbye to what he had never had before a few months ago?

 

He was Max’s, but Max was never his, and certainly not to love. It just doesn't work that way, and it never would. He is the power imbalance, the slave. And he knows so damn well that nobody, _nobody_ can really love a slave.

 

“You held my contract,” Charon says, at last pulling back, forcing his voice to remain as monotone as possible. “Nothing more. I...feel nothing for you. And if you threaten my employer again, I will have no hesitation in ending your life. Do you understand me?”

 

“Charon…n-no, no, I won't leave you!” Max is still reaching for him, and Charon does the only thing he can think of.

 

He grabs Max's shoulders and shoves him to the ground.

 

Max lets out a wail, quiet enough not to alert the others, but loud enough Charon tenses, although he isn't sure if it's from that noise or what he's just done.

 

“You mean nothing to me,” he says. “You never did. I played along with your affections to avoid punishment, as I always have. What you thought I wanted was wrong. I never wanted any of it. I have always wanted you gone, and I would never have loved you.”

 

The words break Max, right in front of him. He's left panting, watching as Max folds into himself and starts to sob, dropping the pistol, and he still won't  _move._

 

Charon grabs the weapon, kneels down, and pushes the barrel against Max's chest. He won't let Max go back there. He just won't. There's no other option but for him to _leave,_ or for Charon to—

 

“Leave. Now. Get up! Or I will—”

 

Max shakes his head. “No. No. No. Kill me. Fuckin’ do it. Do it! Do it, Charon, you fuckin’—you fuckin’ coward! You goddamn—”

 

Some dark part of him flickers, moves the gun up to Max's forehead and cocks it, and knows that even death would be better than the fate that awaits him otherwise. If he won't go—

 

Max sucks in a breath, stares up at Charon, but he doesn't move.

 

It would be mercy.

 

But it isn't what Max deserves, either. Max deserves to be _happy,_ and safe, and home, and alive. Charon shoves the gun into his belt and scoops Max up in his arms, sprinting up to and across the bridge and placing Max on the other side, hidden, safe.

 

His head aches, pulling him back towards his contract holder, but he resists, just briefly, as he looks down at Max.

 

“Go, Max. Now. Go home.”

 

Max stares up at him, sniveling. “But...you’re my home,” he says. “You’re all I have left.”

 

Charon freezes, then takes a startled step back. What? That—no. That doesn’t make any sense. Max’s home is Megaton. Max’s home is...it’s his _home._ His house. Charon can’t—what does that even _mean?_ No. No, no, he doesn’t understand that, and the way it makes him feel is frightening, and he—his head hurts. He has to go back.

 

He backs away, shakes his head, and holds his hands out. “Go,” he says a last time, barely a whisper, and then returns to the shack.

 

When he looks over his shoulder, Max has drawn a little closer, standing against the railing, watching him, but doesn’t seem to be making any move to come back.

 

Good. Stupid fucking boy. He should be running. He should be—

 

Too close, a rifle fires, and Charon flinches, almost staggers, and then his mouth drops open in absolute horror as Max doubles over and collapses onto the bridge.

 

No. _No._ He’s dreaming. No. Not again.

 

“What a fuckin’ shot!” one of the slavers exclaims, coming round the side of the shack. “Damn! And with that fuckin’ wind—”

 

A cry rips itself from Charon's throat, and he makes a move to run, but before he can get more than a step Mercy’s voice rings out behind him.

 

“Stop.”

 

The order halts him, sends an awful bolt of pain through his head, and he growls, struggling. “No, no, no—”

 

“Yes. Stay.” She pushes his shoulder, demands him to get on his knees, and then grabs the sniper from the slaver, shoving him back.

 

“What the fuck was that, huh? You shot him? What happened? You were supposed to be keeping watch!”

 

“I had to piss! The ghoul gave him a gun! He was gonna try and kill us. I heard what he did to that group of soldiers in fuckin' power armor.”

 

Mercy jerks Charon’s head back by his hair, scowling. “Is that true? You let him go?”

 

“ _Please_ —”

 

She yanks harder, cursing at him, and hits the slaver in the stomach with the rifle.

 

“Get the fuck over there! He better be alive!”

 

“Dunno,” the slaver grunts, “I’m a good shot.” Recovering, he stumbles his way up to the bridge, kneels next to Max, takes one look at the blood beneath him and then stands back up, shaking his head.

 

Mercy takes a few steps forward, dragging Charon along beside her. “I’m gonna fucking _kill_ you!”

 

“He wasn’t gonna make shit and you know it! He’s better off!”

 

“No!” Charon shouts again, and she shoves him all the way to the ground.

 

“This is your fault,” she hisses. “This is on you. This is on you! He’s up there dead because of you.”

 

Charon moans, devastated, and shakes his head. No. Max isn’t dead. He can’t be. Max can’t die. He’s injured. He isn’t dead. If he can just get to him— “Let me—Mistress! Let me—”

 

“No. I'd sooner let you watch him bleed out than help him. Shit, you know what, hey! Don’t just leave him up there,” Mercy calls, making some gesture Charon only sees the vague shadow of on the ground, and when he looks up again, the slaver grabs Max’s awfully limp body, lifts him—

 

And tosses him right over the edge, into the still-rushing river.

     

“No!” he screams, struggling to get up, clawing at the ground, but the order holds him awfully, painfully still. “No, please, _no!_ ”

 

“I said stay, ghoul. Stop moving.”

 

“Max!” Charon shouts, as if he expects a response. “ _Max!”_

 

There isn't one. There is nothing.

 

“No,” Charon whispers, tears in his eyes, and she laughs, grabs his shirt and pulls him back to his knees, placing her hands on his shoulders.

 

He doesn't move. He stays.

 

“You wanted him free,” she says, and Charon tilts his head back and screams his fury at her, at the sky, and the cruelty of the universe that had given him what he might have considered love and then ripped it away. She doesn't flinch, just smiles wickedly, watches, and then he shuts his eyes and slumps forward in defeat, pants as he folds into himself and grabs at his head.

 

She laughs, claps her hands a few times, and says, “Wow...it's almost like you really cared about him. But then...you wouldn’t have killed him.”

 

He says nothing. He stays.

 

She runs her fingers down his back to garner a reaction, humming in satisfaction when Charon flinches. “Tell me he was nothing to you, _pet_ ,” she says. “Come on. Look up.”

 

Charon can't take the pain. He just can't. He tries, so briefly, and then, in a tone too close to a whimper, says, “He was nothing to me.”

 

“That wasn't too hard, was it? Go on and say it again. No. Tell me you're happy he's gone. Do it now.”

 

“I...am...happy...he...is...gone.” It's nearly incoherent, growled out through teeth clenched so tight they're creaking, and, to her, it's just not good enough.

 

“I didn't hear you...what was that?”

 

He moans, shakes his head, and chokes as tears mix with the rain running down his face. “I...am...happy...he is gone.”

 

She laughs again, roughly strokes his hair, and cups his cheeks. “You're all mine now,” she coos, and Charon doesn't even try to pull away. He just...stays. He stays. All he can do is stay.

 

“Looks like it’s gonna clear up soon, at least,” the slaver says as he returns, and Mercy smacks the back of his head.

 

“I’ll deal with you in a minute. Get.”

 

Then she grabs Charon’s hair again, a little gentler, and orders him back to his feet.

 

“Back inside. Now.”

 

Charon stays still for a moment longer, grimacing, and she laughs.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, and Charon tenses, sucks in a startled breath and trembles.

 

“Did you forget already? Your reason to fight me is dead.”

 

Charon slowly, slowly stands.

 

Max wasn’t his to protect anymore, anyway. Max shouldn’t matter. Max doesn’t matter.

 

Max...

 

Max is dead, and he _can’t_ matter.

 

He stumbles, once, takes a last look back at the bridge, and then closes his eyes and follows his employer back inside.

 

**x**

 

_"Hey there, kiddies. Three-Dog here again. Ain't got a lot to report, other than apparently, Mr. 101 decided he doesn't wanna help out the Brotherhood of Steel, doesn't wanna help revenge James. As angry as I've seen that kid get, I just can't believe it. I know he needs more time, after...well, you know...but that purifier, our future, might not have that much more time to give. The Enclave is really determined to get what they need, and...well. You know. I'm sure the Brotherhood filled you in before you went off to who knows where. Ain't heard about you today...guess you're headin' home. Take a little recovery time, but remember that we need you, okay? All of us. Make it right, kiddo. I believe in ya. This has been Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	29. Ricochet (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I hope you are all having a lovely holiday season! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°
> 
> Warning for violence/torture/physical abuse, really creepy comments/threats that d o n ' t actually lead to anything happening, and mentions of (past) self-harm.

Charon sits very still and very quiet on the edge of the cot, doesn’t move at all until Mercy decides to order him to kill the man who shot Max.

 

“I don’t like disobedience,” she says simply, waving Charon to get up, and Charon squeezes the slaver’s throat so hard, shakes him so violently, that he's broken the man’s neck before he can suffer half as much as Charon wanted him to. He drops the body and sits heavily back down as his legs give out, his whole body shaking. He's in absolute anguish and yet he somehow manages to keep his face mostly expressionless, even as Mercy sits beside him and rubs his shoulder, thanking him like he'd just done her a simple favor.

 

“I just hate to get my hands all bloody, you know?” she says, and then, when Charon still doesn’t react: “Hey. It’s okay. Don't look so sad! Your kid’s in a better place now, or whatever they say.”

 

His breath sticks in his throat, but he merely stares straight ahead at where Max had laid hours before, bruised and beaten but _alive._

 

Now...now he will never see Max again. Not ever.

 

He blinks hard, struggles to prevent his eyes from watering, and does nothing, waits for her next order.

 

It comes around an hour later, as the storm lifts, and he obeys, packs their things back into the wagon for them and then stands by it, flinching as Mercy strokes under his chin as she passes.

 

“So,” she says, “I should be able to trust you with a weapon, shouldn’t I?”

 

“Yes, Mistress,” Charon replies, quietly, still refusing to look up at her, and she hums.

 

“And you won’t hurt any of us?”

 

“I cannot hurt you. It is against the contract.”

 

“Oh, like you haven't disobeyed that thing...”

 

Charon lowers his head a little further, submissively. “That was wrong, Mistress. It will never happen again, and I would never hurt my employer. You…” He wets his lips, shifts a little. “...are entitled to punish me, if you wish.”

 

“Punish you? Like...kill your boyfriend?” she asks, and Charon bares his teeth, only because she can’t see his face, and grunts.

 

“Yeah. I think that’s punishment enough, don’t you?”

 

“If you are satisfied, Mistress,” he says, and she snorts.

 

“I mean, he was ruined. Wouldn’t’ve made much of anything at all. Nobody would’ve wanted him. And it doesn’t really matter in the end. There’s always more meat out there.”

 

Charon inhales deeply, slowly, and she pats his shoulder, climbs up into the wagon’s seat and rummages through the back until finally she tosses his shotgun to the sand at his feet.

 

“Don’t point it at any of my people. Get my permission before you take a shot at anybody. Go ahead and take any animals out. You’re a bodyguard, right? So do your job. Protect me, _and_ my group, and keep your hands off of them. I'll get you some armor, too, and your shoes, as long as you behave.”

 

“As you command, Mistress,” Charon says, and he can’t even bring himself to feel anything as he picks up his weapon. It’s cold and familiar in his hand, grounding, and he should be relieved to no longer be helpless, but it just doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.

 

It should have been him. It should have always been him. Instead, he’s left here, alone, as he always would have had to be in the end. Max would have left him eventually, but he wouldn’t have thought so soon, and certainly not like this.

 

Max will never hold his hand again. Charon will never see him smile, or hear him laugh, or sleep beside him, or…

 

He’s _gone_. He’s really gone. And lost somewhere in the river, without even a proper burial, and...

 

He shifts, biting his lip, and swallows hard, putting the back of his hand to his mouth as he struggles to compose himself. He feels like he’s going to fall apart, and he almost doesn’t care enough to stop it. The only good thing he’s ever had is gone, and he will never be okay again.

 

He glances back at the bridge against his better judgement and then quickly looks away, hardly moving as Jackson shoulders past him.

 

“What’re you lookin’ at?” the slaver asks, leering. “Your boy’s not comin’ back. He was probably a mirelurk’s dinner already. Such a shame. He had such a great little body. I was looking forward to it. He probably felt good, didn’t he? Ah, well.”

 

Charon trembles in anger, his fists clenching at his sides, but her order keeps him from reaching out to strangle the man again. Instead he turns away, grabs onto the wagon wheel with one hand, and slams the other fist into the wood until blood drips from his knuckles and there are tears in his eyes, then does it twice more before Mercy finally shouts, “Knock it the fuck off!” and throws his boots at him.

 

Charon growls, steps away, and holds his hand against his chest, shaking. One of the slavers snickers, and another says, “He's just as crazy as the kid.”

 

“Well, he belongs to me now, so—”

 

“I belong to no one, _Mistress_ ,” Charon grunts, snatching his shoes from the ground, and Mercy looks down at him, her eyes cold, as she tosses him a barely-armored vault suit with only rusted shoulder plates as protection.

 

“You still feel that way, do you?” She shrugs. “We’ll see. You will, anyway. Get dressed. I like your old armor, so it’s mine now. That’s the only thing we have. Try to avoid getting shot, would you?”

 

Charon frowns; he’ll _see?_ A threat? He doesn’t like the sound of that. He quickly obeys, turning away from Mercy’s gaze. It’s little better than his underclothes, and it’s on the small side (as most everything is), but it _covers_ him, and he supposes he should be grateful for that, at least, especially with the smirk she gives him when he turns back around, yanking his boots on and then slinging his gun around his back.

 

“Good boy,” she says, as if it was something he hadn't known how to do before. “Alright, let’s go. Still got a long ways to go. Walk beside me, ghoul, so I can keep an eye on you.”

 

“Yes, Mistress.” He bites his lip, tries not to look back at the bridge and then does anyways, really looks and feels his eyes water as he, even from where he is, sees the red stain on the ground.

 

_Max…_

 

“Hey,” Mercy snaps, tossing an empty can at his back, and he looks over at her, clears his throat.

 

“I said _let’s go._ ”

 

He slowly, silently nods, falls into place where she wants him, and walks.

 

**x**

 

It's a week before they reach their destination, and Charon has long since gone numb. He’d trailed beside the wagon for a few days, until he'd tripped over his own feet from exhaustion, and then had no choice but to sit up in the front with Mercy when she’d ‘invited’ him. It was a confusing move, but he figured she wanted him focusing more on keeping them safe than walking straight. It is his job, after all—protecting the woman who had let Max die, who keeps  _taunting_ him about it like it's a goddamn joke.

 

They've picked up three more roamers, two young women and a man, and Charon does his best not to listen to the muffled sobbing that comes from behind him, to pretend he doesn't notice when one of the slavers disappears with a captive after they stop for the night.

 

At least it isn't Max, he tries to think.

 

Max can't ever be hurt again now.

 

And then his eyes start to sting, and his chest aches too much for him to bear, and he tries not to think at all anymore.

 

It's well into the fifth day when Charon blinks open his eyes and realizes he's leaned against his employer as they travel, and he doesn't know for how long, keeps lapsing into sleep when he doesn't want to. He hasn't gone this long without sleep in months, had grown far too comfortable and used to resting when he didn't even need to, and as a result is so much weaker than he used to be, both inside and out. 

 

“You're real tired, aren't you?” she asks as he jerks upright again, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat.

 

“...Yes, Mistress.”

 

She hums, looking him over. “It's interesting, that you work just like the rest of us. You're more human than I thought.”

 

Charon says nothing, trying to keep his eyelids from drooping again, and then startles when she settles her hand on his knee. She keeps touching him, keeps grinning when it makes him so obviously uncomfortable, but he’s not so practiced anymore at keeping his emotions inside, and he can’t seem to stop it.

 

Not that it matters.

 

“We’ll be stopping for the night soon,” she says. “I might be inclined to let you take a few hours off. I think you've been punished enough for letting the little vault kid go, don't you? Especially having to watch him die...not even able to save him...that was really hard, I'm sure.”

 

Charon stares ahead, takes a long, deep breath. “I will do whatever you wish, Mistress.”

 

She hums again, runs her hand up to Charon's thigh, and smiles when his whole body twitches and recoils. “Oh?”

 

“No,” Charon says, grabbing her fingers and pulling them away, forced to resist the overwhelming urge to break them. “Not that, _Mistress_.”

 

“For the best, of course,” she says, bringing her hands back into her lap, and Charon is only mildly relieved, knowing it isn't over, because it's _never_ going to be over, now. He keeps his gaze far away from her until they stop, until he stumbles off the wagon and nearly hits the sand.

 

“Jesus, look at him,” one of them laughs, and another shoves him off-balance, leaves him clutching the side of the wagon in order to stay on his feet, breathing heavily.

 

“Not so tough now, are ya, shuffler?"

 

“Hey now,” Mercy says, swatting her hand at them, and approaches Charon, who shrinks just enough to be noticeable.

 

"So jumpy," she says, chuckling, and then gestures at the wagon. “Set up camp, and I’ll toss you a treat. I know you're hungry.”

 

Charon nods, slowly, and mumbles, “Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Good. Then go on. And be quick about it.”

 

Grimacing, his limbs shaking, Charon grabs their beds and tents, sets it all up around the fire one of them makes as he has every night prior, before returning to Mercy’s side as she stands against the wagon, surveying, never lifting a finger herself. She doesn't just have him to do her work, she has the rest of them, too. Their lives depend on it, he knows now. They have a right to fear her.

 

She smiles at him, brings her hand out to show him a strip of jerky, and Charon bites his lip, keeps himself still despite the desperate, instinctual urge to grab for it; once again having his needs taken advantage of is a brutal reminder of his worthless status, and how he should never have let himself fall into the habit of thinking he maybe deserved any different. 

 

“I guess you’ve earned something,” she says, shrugging, and then literally tosses it at him, far enough to the side that he can’t catch it before it hits the sand.

 

“Oops!”

 

Charon reacts immediately, crouches and scarfs it down without even brushing it off, not giving her the chance to take it away.

 

“Wow," she says, and then cocks her hip out to the side. “I'd be happy to give you some more, but...you're gonna have to work for it.”

 

Charon watches her, silent, and she smiles.

 

“Don't be cute. You know exactly what I want.”

 

“I require very little," he says, standing up and turning away.

 

“Really?” She clicks her tongue, saunters over to him. “A big guy like you? Thought you couldn't lie to me…”

 

“I cannot, and have not,” Charon says, taking another step away. “I require nearly nothing to go on. _Mistress_. Do you wish me to stand guard?”

 

“I'll let you sleep,” she says, and Charon shakes his head. He can keep going. He has to, and he _will_.

 

“No, Mistress,” he says, and cringes away when she reaches out towards him. “I said no!”

 

Mercy scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Why are you being so fucking _difficult?_ You're supposed to do what I want.”

 

“I said no,” Charon says, pressing his palms to his temples and closing his eyes.

 

“You fucked your last _employer_.”

 

“I did not. I do not want to.”

 

She chuckles, quietly. “Thing is...I don't really care what a _slave_ wants.”

 

“I _will_ not!” Charon growls, scowling. “Mistress, I _will not!_ ”

 

She grabs his arm, squeezes it tightly and digs her nails in. “Yeah. You will. I'll order you to."

 

“I am for _combat_ services—" he says. "Physical violence invalidates the contract. Stop. _Stop._ Physical violence invali—”

 

“I didn't say I’d hurt you, did I?” she asks, quietly, trailing the fingers of her other hand along his hip, and he's trembling now, is barely managing to keep himself together.

 

_Not again. No more._

 

“The contract,” he finally chokes out, “—invalidates the contract.”

 

A sharp bolt of pain goes through his head, nearly drops him to his knees, and she squeezes harder.

 

“It says that? Huh? It's against the rules?" 

 

He can hardly hear her over the pounding in his ears, and he shakes his head, clutches at it desperately. “Nn—y— _ah_ —it is...it is...it...is...” He sucks in a breath, stares at her through blurred vision, his eyes wide. “Is...is...it is...it _is,"_ he sputters finally, panting, and she shoves him, easily knocks him down, and he looks up at her from where he lands, stunned.

 

Had he just…

 

_Lied?_

 

No...no. That's not possible. He had...he had simply been unable to finish. He couldn't have just...manipulated the wording of his ingrained script to his _own_ advantage, right?

 

No. That can't be right. He's not allowed to do that. He _can't_ do that. He has never, _ever_ been able to do that.

 

His vision shimmers. He hears her scoff, and mutter something else about him not being properly trained, and then he slowly, slowly sinks down onto his side, struggling to keep his eyes open. His head hurts so damn _much_...

 

“M-Mmm...Mistress…” he mumbles, and she kicks sand over him and spits, “Shut your fuckin’ mouth and sleep.”

 

So gratefully, Charon does.

 

**x**

 

He doesn't like the memories that surface as they arrive at Paradise Falls. The pain of being forced to sell someone into the same life of hell he's been in for centuries is not one easily forgotten, but he finds there are other disgusts that he's hidden away, too.

 

He remembers coming here a few times over several employers, though was only ever ordered to wait outside; remembers seeing a young girl dragged off into the distance, and seeing a boy blown to pieces as he tried to escape.

 

It makes him flinch, and nausea rises up in him, and he quickly starts trying to forget again.

 

None of the slavers he comes across look familiar, however, and it’s a relief. The last thing he needs now is one of them to remember him, to taunt him like that awful Sister had at Rivet City, although he isn’t sure why he hates to be faced with the things he’s done. He _had_ sold to Sister. He _had_ sold to others. And the only reason Max hadn’t met the same fate is…

 

“Uh, no,” the slaver standing guard says, standing up and moving to block their way. “Mercy. C’mon. What’re you doin’ bringin’ another ghoul in? We ain’t even sold the last one!”

 

“Relax, Grouse,” Mercy says, stroking a finger under the man’s chin. “He’s a present.”

 

Grouse scoffs, shaking his head. “A fuckin’ _ghoul?_ Are you crazy?”

 

“Trust me. He’s an interesting one.”

 

A present? So...not hers forever. Not even hers for that much longer. Charon doesn’t visibly react with the relief he feels at this, just lets a long breath as they start walking again, only stares ahead and follows.

 

He’s going to kill her. The very goddamn second his contract switches hands…

 

One slaver approaches them, sneers up at Charon, and shakes his head at Mercy. “Seriously? Bringin’ that ugly ass thing in here? Eulogy ain’t gonna be pleased.”

 

“Hmm. We’ll see. I sure think he’ll be very pleased. This is a _special_ ghoul. Isn’t that right?” She nudges Charon’s arm, and Charon grunts.

 

“Answer me.”

 

Through gritted teeth, Charon says, “What do you wish me to say, Mistress?”

 

The slaver snickers, looking Charon over. “He’s already trained? That's new.”

 

Mercy smiles, doesn’t reply, and hums as she pushes at the middle of Charon’s back, starting him forward again. Charon doesn’t really realize just how absolutely _fucked_ he is until Mercy leads him right up to a door labeled ‘Eulogy’s Pad’ and knocks, and then he suddenly comes to the conclusion of _who_ exactly he is serving as a ‘present’ to.

 

He has never seen the man, but he’s heard just about everything about him, how cruel he is, how he had killed off the Falls’ last leader and anyone who protested and taken over it all, how he's beaten slaves to death over _nothing,_ and he wonders, briefly, if maybe Mercy isn’t so bad after all.

 

 _No._ Mercy had let Max die. Mercy had made Charon _watch_. He doubts anything this man could do to him hasn’t been done before, but she had ripped away the only thing that had ever, _ever_ mattered, had his body dumped over the side of a bridge like he was _garbage_ and then tried to hurt Charon even further, and she is going to pay for it.

 

A younger woman opens the door, her expression twisting up into one of disgust as she takes in Charon and then backs up a step.

 

“Ew! What’s that doin’ here?”

 

“Mr. Eulogy around?” Mercy asks, as sickly-sweet as she’s ever sounded, and the woman makes another face, shakes her head, and then turns around.

 

“Daddy!” she calls, and looks back. “I don’t think it can come in. I just cleaned.”

 

“Of course,” Mercy says, and Charon really looks the woman over, takes in the bruising under her eye and the collar round her neck and wonders why exactly Mercy hasn’t treated her as she has every other slave, every person they’ve come across.

 

The man that comes to the girl’s side looks no different than what Charon supposes he should have expected; a bright-colored suit, a cigar pinched between two fingers, a smirk on his lips that fades as soon he sees Charon.

 

“Now, Mercy,” he says, slipping his arm around the younger woman’s waist, and Charon guesses that, with how manipulative he knows Mercy is, maybe Mercy simply wants to stay on the man’s good side through his slave.

 

“I know you didn’t just bring me _another_ ghoul.”

 

“If you’d hear me out,” she says, “I _really_ think you’ll come to like him. He is for you, after all.”

 

“You shouldn’t have.”

 

“Really,” the girl says, upper lip curled, and Eulogy pushes her to the side.

 

“Now I know I didn’t tell you you could backtalk Ms. Mercy here. Apologize.”

 

“Sorry,” she mutters, tilting her chin down, and Eulogy pats her head and then gestures for them to enter.

 

“Fine. Come in. I trust this’ll be good.”

 

Mercy takes out his contract, too roughly, crumples the edges, and Charon’s breath audibly hitches.

 

“Oh, it is.”

 

**x**

 

Charon tunes out their conversation, keeps his eyes on his contract, and waits. He can feel Eulogy’s gaze turn to him a few times, knows the girl hasn’t stopped glaring at him since he’s been here, but he doesn’t grant either of them any attention, not even when Mercy orders him to get to his knees and explain his contract.

 

For once no one stops him. He goes through the entirety of his contract, puts a hand up to his head as it starts to hurt yet again—why won’t it fucking _stop?_ It throbs, briefly, every time he even gets a goddamn order, now—and then goes quiet, waits for one of them to respond.

 

“Well,” Eulogy finally says, clapping twice. “I was wrong. What a pretty price he’ll sell for…good job. Excellent, in fact.”

 

“Thank you,” Mercy hums, doing some dramatic gesture as she holds out the contract, and Charon’s fingers twitch.

 

“For you,” she says.

 

Eulogy reaches out, takes the contract, and nods.

 

It’s _not_ a good choice, but Charon makes it anyways, because he just doesn’t care. He grabs his shotgun, aims, and fires into her chest before any of them can react, and by the time the girl has staggered back and Eulogy has scrambled to his feet, Charon has dropped his weapon and leaned over, clasping his hands at the back of his neck in a show of surrender.

 

Her orders, her _hands,_ won't hurt anyone ever again, now.

 

“What the _fuck?_ ” Eulogy finally yells, grabbing Charon’s hair. “What the fuck? What the—”

 

“I am sorry,” Charon says, quietly, remaining limp even as he’s dragged forward.

 

“You’re _sorry?_ You just killed my best recruiter! You piece of shit! I’m gonna _kill_ you, you goddamn—”

 

“Physical violence invalidates the contract,” Charon reminds him, and Eulogy releases him, breathing hard.

 

“Daddy, do you want me to—”

 

“I want you to shut the fuck up, bitch,” he growls, shoving the girl much harder than before, and then the front door slams open, two slavers coming into the room with their weapons raised.

 

“You alright in here Mr. Eu—holy shit! What happened?”

 

Eulogy swears again, grabs Charon’s wrist, and then releases him with a grunt of what sounds like pain.  

 

 _Oh, no._ Immediately on edge, Charon brings one of his knees up, reaches out towards his employer, and Eulogy knocks his hand away.

 

“Head down, fucker!”

 

Charon obeys, splays his hands at Eulogy’s feet, and breathlessly asks, “Have...you been injured?”

 

“Worry about yourself,” Eulogy hisses, and finally gestures at the slavers. “Get this fuckin’ body out of here...her, not the ghoul.”

 

Blood drips down onto Charon’s wrist, and he ducks his head even further, wincing at the dull ache, the confirmation that he’s _really_ fucked up this time. “I...I have injured you?”

 

“Ricochet,” Eulogy mutters, again shoving the girl away when she tries to get closer. “I can’t beat you? Fine. How about I have everyone else do it?” He kneels down, grabs Charon’s chin, and yanks it up.

 

“You better start _beggin’_ me not to hurt you,” he says, clenching his other hand into a fist and holding it to Charon’s face, and Charon only stares at the gash on the side of Eulogy’s hand. He reaches out to him again, and this time Eulogy slaps him, then stands up and points his gun at Charon’s head.

 

“Ah, shit. You better not try to kill me, I’ll fuckin’—”

 

“I have injured you,” Charon says, so softly, and bites his lip, looks up at Eulogy with what he thinks is a blank expression, but that Eulogy frowns and lowers his weapon upon seeing, interested.

 

“The contract,” he says, and grins. “You’re not allowed to do that, are you?”

 

Slowly, Charon shakes his head, and Eulogy hums, puts his gun back in the holster at his side.

 

“So what’s that mean? What happens if you void your own contract?”

 

“It is not void,” Charon murmurs, rubbing his head against his shoulder.

 

“No?”

 

“No.” The dread that has overcome him is hard to think through, and he's having trouble keeping his breathing steady. What has he done? What has he _done?_ So goddamn careless, the very first thing he's done for the man is _fail_ him, and he deserves every frightening possibility that could become of it. “When I fail, you...you are entitled to deliver punishment.”

 

“Oh? And what kind?”

 

He licks his lips, hesitates a moment, and then finally clears his throat and says, “Any.”

 

Eulogy's face splits into an awful, malicious grin, and he claps. “Holy shit. Is this what’s gonna happen every time I get a paper-cut?” He grabs Charon’s hair again, and yanks his head up before any response can be given. “You _really_ shouldn’t have done that, then,” he says. “Get up. Let’s go.”

 

Charon doesn’t dare ask where, still bent over even when he stands as Eulogy keeps a hold on his hair, leading him outside and to the left. Several slavers follow, curiously, and as Eulogy tosses him to the ground, Charon notices the slave pens across from him, notices frightened faces watching him, some of them far too young.

 

“You know what we do to slaves that piss me off? Ones that don't behave?” Eulogy asks, and Charon straightens up a little, stays on his knees and doesn't look up, resting his hands on his thighs. He doesn't know why he's afraid. This is entirely his fault, just like Max’s death, and nothing less than what he deserves.

 

“You cannot kill me.”

 

“Oh, no, of course not!” Eulogy says, clicking his tongue. “Then you’d be of no use to me at all. No, no. That won’t do. Forty?”

 

One of the slavers steps forward, hands Eulogy a whip with what might be a dozen strips of leather attached to the handle. Eulogy thanks him, flicks his wrist, and the sound the strips make as they slice through the still air is more than enough to make Charon flinch.

 

“You've been around for a long time,” Eulogy says, delighted, “but even you're not as old as this. She's called a knout. Someone got her from some history museum. Think she’s from Russia. Always love a girl with an accent. And she is just the greatest little thing, I'm telling you.” He strikes it down into the sand, leaves a dent nearly half a foot deep, and Charon fights to steady himself.

 

“Listen to that whistle!” He chuckles, looks over at the pens. “And they've all hid. They're smart. Nobody wants to deal with her. Only two of them have, and those two are dead now, because, you see, it's hard to tell when your spine is just gonna—”

 

He snaps it again, too close, and Charon sits back, glaring.

 

Eulogy smirks, puts his hand on his hip, and saunters over to a wooden post sticking up out of the ground, leans against it and smiles back over at him. “Know what this is?”

 

Charon sets his jaw and deliberately looks away. He isn’t stupid, and he's never seen any slaver camp without one; he wishes this unnecessary display being put on would just _stop_ so he can get it over with.

 

“Yeah. I thought you might. Stand up. Take off your shirt, and...armor, if that’s what that is. Come on over. Won't give you too many, now, on account of the fact you really ain't got any skin left, but...hey. I'm still gonna have to give you a good few. You understand.”

 

Charon is very slow to obey, his teeth clenched tight as he unzips the suit and steps out of it, pulling off his shirt as he goes to Eulogy’s side.

 

“God, you are _disgusting_ ,” Eulogy says, and then kicks the post. “Go on. Hold onto it. Don't let go.”

 

Again, at length, Charon does so, shaking his head as he slips his wrists into the handles on either side.

 

“Hey,” Eulogy says, raising the whip, “you gave me permission.” And then he brings it down onto Charon's back, the strips whizzing loudly through the air just before they hit.

 

Charon jerks, sucks in a breath, and digs his fingers into the wood. The resulting ache is nearly worse than the initial sting, and in just three lashes he can feel blood trickling down his sides, can see it on the sand beneath his feet after three more.

 

On the tenth he makes a noise, clutching desperately at the post and gasping for air, and Eulogy finally gives him a few seconds of reprieve, chuckling, almost as out of breath as Charon.

 

“Did you say something?” he asks, taking a step back. “Huh? Somethin’ like, ‘please, Master, don't hurt me anymore! I'm so sorry!’”

 

Charon doesn't respond. He adjusts his grip, moves himself a little, and keeps his head down.

 

“No?” Eulogy scoffs. “You want a few more? You know, this baby...she's killed with twenty before. You wanna take that chance? I might only give you five more if you beg. Maybe grovel a little at my feet.”

 

He could. It's tempting, and surely no less embarrassing than the whimper he just let out. But after a moment of thought he doesn't, remains silent and still, and squeezes his eyes shut when he's struck again.

 

“Fine. I'm having fun, anyway.”

 

Two more. Another. It hurts. Charon can take the pain.  

 

Three more. It _hurts._  He's weak, dizzy, but he can take the pain.

 

It just can’t be anything like what Max experienced as he _died._ It's just _karma,_ and still better than what he should receive. This is the punishment he _deserves,_ for everything; more pain than he could ever manage to inflict on himself.

 

At twenty his legs give out and he crumples, wheezing, and Eulogy swears.

 

“Fuckin’ stupid rotter,” he mutters, and somehow he sounds more furious than before. “Look at me. Look at me!"

 

Barely conscious, Charon glances up through blurred vision, grimacing.

 

“You tell me what I wanna hear, or I'll keep going.”

 

Charon shakes his head, just once, but he doesn't really have a choice anymore. It's too much now. This isn't burning himself with cigarettes, or on the railing outside Max’s home. It's not peeling off a piece or two of skin, or scratching himself until he bleeds. This is the most pain he's been in since the Outcasts, since the last employer that had whipped him as punishment, and even more than that. That had been with a _belt._ Not this. This is more than he can handle. He's going to suffer for _weeks,_ with more than a few scars added to his collection.

 

_Good._

 

It's better than what Max received, or anyone else he's hurt.

 

He groans, softly, flinching when Eulogy raises the weapon, and mumbles, “N-no. You...cannot...kill me...keep going...I...will die.”

 

“Maybe I should,” Eulogy snarls, grabbing his hair. “You're really gonna make me do it, aren't you?”

 

Charon reaches up, foolishly tries to wrench the whip out of his hand, and Eulogy slaps him, drags him away from the post and onto the sand, brings the lashes down against Charon’s chest and relishes the agonized wail that escapes Charon's mouth.

 

“Music to my ears,” he says, putting his boot up on Charon’s chest and pushing him down, grinning as Charon writhes, crying out as hot sand contacts his wounds. He moans, hands scrabbling desperately at Eulogy's leg, and then he chokes out, “Stop!”

 

“You know how to make it stop,” the man says, sing-song. “Just a few words. I’ll take you to the clinic, and it'll all be over.”

 

When Charon still doesn't say anything, wheezing, Eulogy brings the whip down on him again, and _again,_ and then catches him right under his chin, one of the lashes slicing a deep gash down his cheek.

 

Charon grabs it again, uses all the strength he has left to keep a grip on it, and tugs. “You...must...not...continue. I must...preserve...myself. You cannot...no more. I have...been...punished.”

 

Eulogy scoffs. “Well, since I ain't hearin’ you sayin’ sorry, it obviously ain’t enough.”

 

“I am sorry...I am _sorry_ …”

 

“You’re sorry _what?_ ”

 

Charon groans, hesitates, and then Eulogy yanks the whip free. He moves down, smirks, and snaps it down against Charon’s groin, and Charon shrieks, “ _Master!_ ” and curls into himself, shoves his hands between his legs and _sobs._

 

“That’s better,” Eulogy says, calmly, and drops the weapon. “Now get up. Can’t have you bleed to death, can we?”

 

Charon hears the order, vaguely, but he can’t obey. He _can’t._ He can’t ever move again, he can’t breathe, he’s _dying,_ but oh, God, his head hurts _worse—_

 

“Fine, don’t,” Eulogy says, and wrenches one of Charon’s wrists free, starts to drag him along by it.

 

“ _Jesus_ you’re a heavy fucker,” he says. “Not even gonna give me any help? Really? Hey! Better fuckin’ stay awake!” He throws Charon’s arm back at him, scoffs as he only heaves bile onto the ground and then curls up tighter, and then hums, reaching out to grab a length of rope hung on the fence.

 

“New plan,” he says, and then kneels down, wraps it around Charon’s neck, and _pulls._

 

Charon chokes, reaches up to try and dislodge it, and hits Eulogy’s hands as his employer ties it uncomfortably tight around his neck, coughing out, “St-stop!”

 

“What? I can’t carry you there.” And then he stands, and starts to walk, and doesn’t let go.

 

Charon lets out a yelp and scrambles to pick himself up, to get to his feet, as Eulogy drags him across the plaza, chuckling madly.

 

“There you go! I knew you could help me out a little,” Eulogy says, ignoring Charon’s incoherent pleas. “You know what? I used to have a dog. He was bad, too. First thing he did was bite me. I had to train him just like a slave. You know what I did? I left him out in the sun for _days,_ let him starve until he was just too tired to bite me. And then I let him go, and I fed him, and wouldn’t you know it, he just _loved_ me after that! He was never bad again.”

 

He drops the rope once they’re inside the clinic, calling for Cutter, and then looks back at Charon as he collapses. “You’re not gonna make me do that, are you? Because you’re already trained, aren’t you? Hmm? That made you sorry enough, didn't it? You’re gonna be a good mutt, right?"

 

Gasping, Charon nods, struggling to undo the knot, fingers shaking and weak.

 

“Ah, ah. Why don’t you leave that on? Can’t have a dog without a leash.”

 

Charon groans, sticks his fingers between the rope and his throat and tugs desperately, and Eulogy grabs his hair and pulls his head back. “I said leave it on. I hear you breathin’. You’re fine. Tell me you’re gonna behave and I’ll let her take you in.”

 

“I will—” Charon wheezes, staring up at him with wide eyes, “I will behave. Mm—a- _ah_ — _Master._ ”

 

“Good dog,” he says, and stands up, putting his hand on Cutter’s shoulder as she comes in from the other room, frowning down at Charon.

 

“He’s gonna get me a beautiful price,” Eulogy says, softly. “Take care of him, will you?”

 

“Of course,” she mutters, shrugging his hand off, and Eulogy steps over Charon, thanks her, and then shuts the door, leaving them alone.

 

“ _Damn,_ ” she says, circling him. “He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

 

Charon groans, lifts his arms over his head, and closes his eyes.

 

**x**

 

Eulogy requires much less of him than any other employer, but he doesn't allow Charon to stand. 

 

It's not the most pathetic Charon has ever looked, he's sure, and it's surely not the most humiliated he's ever been. His entire  _life_ has been degrading, and he doesn’t know how he still has the ability to even _feel_ shame,  but whenever Eulogy takes him on his daily strolls around the plaza, holding the rope, his _leash,_  as Charon crawls along beside him, it’s absolutely overwhelming. 

 

He tries his best to ignore the snickers he gets, the agonizing pets down his still-burning back and coos of _good dog,_ and forces himself to just be grateful he's starting to heal, however slowly. The wounds are deep and still open, and still leak blood if he brushes them against something, or if someone pats him too hard, but they haven't gotten infected, and thankfully, _finally,_ he can relieve himself without seeing so much red, without his knees nearly giving out from the pain. It had been _far_ less easy to crawl around at first, especially from _that_ pain, and he'd had tears involuntarily running down his face in mere seconds, pathetic little whines escaping him with every movement that Eulogy had continuously expressed his joy upon hearing.

 

_'You sound just like the wounded little mutt you are. So fitting, and just what I love to hear.'_

He thinks it’s been a week, maybe a little longer, but he can’t be sure; he'd drifted in and out of a feverish sleep for what must have been days at the clinic. Cutter had forced him to stay on the floor and _still_ been nicer than any of the other slavers; she’d at least given him a blanket. Aside from a ragged pair of clothes that barely fit him, the only thing Eulogy has given him is a few newspapers tossed into a corner as a ‘bed’, and he looks far too happy when he catches Charon curled into himself and shivering for Charon to believe that will ever change.

 

He reminds Charon of Ahzrukhal when he gets that little smirk; it’s just as disgusting, even slightly lopsided, and brought on by Charon's suffering. They're hardly different. None of his employers have ever been different. 

 

_Except..._

 

He's been trying so damn hard to pretend he’d come here straight from Underworld, to forget the boy entirely, to not even _think_ his name, but it’s harder than it should be.

 

He used to be so good at forgetting, or at least blocking the thoughts away. Now, when it’s quiet and dark and he’s trembling in his corner, left alone with nothing but his mind, he can only think about just how warm he used to be, sleeping in a bed with an employer far better than he ever deserved. An employer he was always bound to kill, by negligence or by someone else's order; an employer that should have left him to rot.

 

He doesn’t cry, though, at least, not over an employer; sometimes tears drip down his cheeks as he lays there, arms wrapped tight around himself in a useless attempt to find some sort of warmth, but it's not crying. He doesn't cry. He’s just been in more pain than he can handle lately, and they seep out without his permission.

 

It's not because of anything else; not because of any _one_ else. Not his employer, and not his only friend, who he'd stupidly promised he'd return to.

 

Physical pain, and that’s the _only_ reason.

 

He doesn’t know exactly how long passes before Eulogy leaves him, without orders, just outside his pad. He watches as his employer walks off with his second-in-command over to the slave pens, and then sits back, confused. It’s the first time he hasn’t been dragged along, and although he's grateful for the break without hot sand on his aching, raw knees and blistered hands, he has to wonder if it’s some sort of test when the group of slavers cooking across from him turn their attentions to him and start to taunt him.

 

“You hungry, mutt?” one of them calls, dangling a chunk of steak in his hand, and Charon swallows hard, tries not to react even as his mouth waters and his empty stomach twists. It’s far more food then he’s been given at one time since he’s been here, would make him feel so much _better_ than the scraps Eulogy tosses him, and he finds himself looking over to where his employer is again, licking his lips when he sees that still, Eulogy isn't paying him any attention.

 

“C’mon! Come here, pup!”

 

Charon still doesn’t move, because he hasn’t been ordered to and he _can’t_ make Eulogy mad again, but he’s awfully tempted. It must be more obvious than he realizes, because a couple of them laugh, and then the one holding the steak flings it in his direction.

 

It only makes it halfway to him, but it’s close enough that Charon doesn’t have the chance to think about it before he’s instinctively scrambling forward, grabbing it and turning his back to them as he tears into it.

 

“Jesus, just like a wild animal! Look at that! Hey, Mr. Jones, your pet’s loose!”

 

A trick, a goddamn _trick,_ and he’s going to be punished, now, he just _knows_ it, but he doesn’t stop. He leans over it protectively, and they won’t be able to take it from him if he finishes before they can get to him.

 

“What the hell? Who the fuck let you in here, Princess?”

 

Vaguely Charon hears them start muttering, jeering, but it’s not at him. He only knows that their attentions aren’t on his disobedience anymore, and he couldn’t possibly care less about _anything_ as he chokes the rest of the steak down. He then braces his hands on the ground, panting, keeps his head down, and then—

 

“ _You_.”

 

The growl is nearly inhuman, and Charon doesn’t have the chance to fully raise his head or even really comprehend that it's directed at _him_ before a gloved fist smashes into his face. The force knocks him to the ground, and he covers the slits of his nose as blood starts to run from them, looking up and feeling his heart stop as his vision clears, his eyes going wide.

 

Standing above him, glaring down at him and breathing hard, the lower half of his face covered by a bandana, is—

 

“M- _Max?_ ”


	30. Ricochet (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a Happy New Year! ^_^ I appreciate each and every comment and kudos and bookmark and view I've gotten over the last year of working on this! Thank you so, so much for your continued support, it means the entire world to me! I hope you continue to enjoy until we finish up! Still got a little ways to go! It's all good, though. Very good. >:3
> 
> Warning for drug use and brief mentions of both (past) self-harm/suicidal thoughts and (past) threats of rape/non-con.

He doesn't remember being shot, but he remembers hitting the water, remembers the ice cold enveloping him, the shock forcing the air from his lungs while he's unable to take another.

 

His arms work, barely, and somehow propel him back to the surface, and he sucks in a breath and tries to scream, to shout for Charon, for anyone, before he's rolled under again by the current.

 

There's an awful, awful feeling in his chest, and he knows there is something wrong. He's injured, he can taste blood even over river water, can feel that _something_ is wrong. He's so tired, more tired than he has ever been, and when he manages to pull himself back up again, when he's sucked back into the darkness, he isn't sure he has the strength to try again.

 

He hurts. Everything hurts. His lungs burn, his body fighting his mind to inhale despite the fact that there is nothing but pitch black water around him, and he tries again. He really tries, kicking his legs, grabbing out in hopes of something, anything, because he can't hold his breath any longer, not a second more—he has to breathe, he has to—

 

Something touches his hand, and he wraps his fingers around it, pulls—and it pulls back, tugs him right up and out and allows blessed, life-saving oxygen back into his body.

 

He chokes up water, trying to scream, but he can't. Or maybe he is—he can't hear anything but the water and the ringing in his ears, and it’s not like anyone _else_ can hear him, so he focuses on dragging more air into him. He's already starting to lose feeling, to lose grip on the one thing keeping him alive right now, which feels like it's trying to rip right out of his hand, and—maybe he just isn't meant to survive this. Maybe he was supposed to die back in the vault, maybe none of this was ever supposed to happen, because his dad would probably still be alive if he hadn't gone to help, because everyone is hurt around him, everything falls, and he—he can't hold on anymore, and maybe it's for the best.

 

His fingers slip off, and he's sucked down again, and then something yanks his shirt, and a hand grabs his arm, and he's dragged back up—and onto dry land.

 

He collapses, heaving up more water than he remembers swallowing, and feels the hands against him again, one pounding on his back and the other supporting him, arm wrapped around his chest.

 

 _Charon_ , he thinks, vaguely. It has to be him. Charon had saved him, because Charon loves him. God, he loves Charon so much…

 

“That's it, get it out. Thatta boy. Doin’ good. You’re okay.”

 

The voice is hardly audible over the roar of the river in the background, although even that sounds further away than before, but it's not Charon's. He tries to open his eyes, tries to look up, but all he can see is red spreading out under him in the sand, blurred and fading, and the hand on his chest moves, presses hard over a spot that sends a bolt of agony through him.

 

“Just breathe. I got ya. You're gonna be fine. You're in good hands, I promise.”

 

A few more hacking coughs and a couple desperate gasps, and Max has to trust the words, doesn't really have a choice, because he just can't keep his eyes open anymore.

 

The sounds of the storm fade out, and he finally, finally sleeps.

 

**x**

 

He slips in and out of consciousness, never waking for more than a few moments, just long enough to catch blurry glimpses of what's happening around him. He sees a dark figure leaned over him, a woman, and feels something cold and soothing pressed to his forehead, hears more gentle cooing every time he weakly manages to make a sound.

 

“Keep still,” she says to him once, and another time: “You’re okay. Just sleep.”

 

His body hurts like it never has before, wrenches whines from his mouth that he can't control as he trembles. He hears her say something about making him feel better, and then he doesn't hurt anymore at all. His head becomes pleasantly fuzzy, and his limbs are warm, like he's wrapped in Charon's arms, and...and… _Charon_. He wants Charon. He _needs_ Charon. He has to go...has to get up, has to go find the only person he has left…

 

But he's so warm, here. So delightfully warm. He feels so good…so relaxed...so... _sleepy…_

 

Maybe he can stay here just a little longer.

 

When he finally comes to, opening his eyes and remaining coherent, she touches his cheek and brushes his hair back.

 

“Welcome back, kiddo,” she says, leaning down over him, and he doesn't remember what's happening, only thinks about _Mercy_ and the slaver that had run his hands all over his body—

 

“No!” he cries, flinching away, and her hands grab his shoulders and too easily pin him down.

 

“Hey, hey! You're safe! You're okay. Relax. Just relax. Don’t move too much. You're safe, okay?”

 

“Ch...Charon?” he whimpers, squinting as he tries to look around, but his vision is still so goddamn blurry...why can't he see?

 

“I still don't know who that is,” she says, releasing him, “but you need to stay still. You almost died, kid. I really wasn't sure for a few days.”

 

Days? It’s been _days?_ Longer? Oh, God—the slavers, the _contract—_ Charon has been _theirs_ for too long already—

 

“Wh...wha…what happened?” he manages to croak finally. “Wh...where...is he?”

 

“Just take a breath. Those slavers that were here...they had someone else?”

 

“Charon,” Max whimpers, “I...I-I can’t...I can’t see, where’s…?”

 

“You can’t see?” She leans closer, and Max squints up at her, flinches as her long grey hair tickles his face.

 

“You’re lookin’ right at me. You can’t see me?”

 

Max blinks hard, reaching up to rub his head. “My glasses…?”

 

“Oh, _shit,_ kid, glasses? I barely got _you_ out. Those things are long gone.”

 

“No, no...but…” Max frowns, and his head just isn’t clear enough to panic as much as he knows he needs to. Instead, he’s immediately onto another problem as he glances at his arm and realizes it’s _bare,_ looks down at himself and is startled to find the only thing covering him is a blanket. He gasps, pulls it over himself and desperately tries to hide, and she quickly steps away, turns.

 

“Relax, kid. I got you some clothes here. I wasn’t lookin’. You were shot. Do you remember that?”

 

Max breathes in, slowly, and then shakes his head.

 

She nods, returns to drape a shirt and pants over his torso. “I didn’t think you would.”

 

“Wh...who are you?”

 

“Name’s Elodie,” she says. “Yours?”

 

“Mmm...Max,” he murmurs after a long minute, struggling to focus through the fog clouding his consciousness. “Where…?”

 

“My house,” she says, gesturing at the blurry interior that Max is starting to realize is very oddly familiar. “Didn’t really expect a bunch of damn slavers to be here when I got back.”

 

Her house. They’d been in her house. This is where they had been, he’s laying in the same cot Charon had been sitting on, that _Mercy_ had been sleeping on—

 

Overwhelmed, he starts to cry, squirms in an attempt to sit up and then cries harder at the pain that shoots through his chest. “Ah, _God!_ ”

 

“I told you to keep still,” she says, sounding a little more aggravated as she pushes on his shoulder again, and he looks up at her, desperately.

 

“Please, they...they have him. They have him. I have to get him back, please, I have to go!”

 

“You need to rest.”

 

“No, I gotta—” He starts trying to push himself up again, grabbing out for anything to help him, and she grabs his arm. He, foolishly, thinks she might be trying to get him up for a moment, until he sees her reach up with her other hand and slide a needle into his skin. He shrieks, slaps her away, and then slumps back, panting. “No, no...Ch...Charon, please, I need…whoa…”

 

“I wasted _all_ my med supplies on you,” Elodie says, tucking the blanket up to his chin in a surprisingly gentle show of kindness. “So you’re gonna stay there until you’re better. I didn’t do that for no reason.”

 

“ _Whoa,_ ” Max says again, blinking hard and helplessly reaching up towards her again. The pain is fading, along with everything else, melting away into a warm, peaceful bliss, and he doesn’t even think he’s upset about it anymore, can’t really think at _all_ after another moment.

 

She catches his hand, squeezes it, and pushes his hair out of his face as his eyes close. “Sleep. You’re safe here.”

 

He does, for God knows how long, until finally he drags himself up into a sitting position, groaning, clutching his chest. He’s alone, and as the blanket slides down around his hips, he dares to glance down, placing a hand over the scar of the bullet that nearly killed him, right over his heart. How had that not killed him? _Why?_ There’s not a damn reason for him to be here right now, except maybe—

 

 _Charon._ He jolts, can’t believe he hasn’t been thinking of him _more,_ and then forces his legs over the side of the cot. He can’t see...God, what is he going to do without his glasses? He can’t go on like this. He can’t do _anything_ like this.

 

But he has to. He has to find a way to get to Charon, even if he has to do it blind. He stands, staggers, and leans heavily against the wall, dropping the blanket to start to try and dress himself, and _of course_ that has to be the moment the woman he was pretty damn sure he dreamed up comes through the door. He cries out, clumsily covering himself, and she drops her bag to the floor.

 

“You’re standing,” she says, and she sounds delighted, turning around to give him privacy he hadn’t expected. “You’re a fuckin’ miracle, you know that? I don’t know how you’re alive. I really don’t.”

 

Max stays still for a few seconds, trembling, in shock, and then finally manages to wrench the shirt over his head and step into the pants, stumbling again and catching himself, just barely, against the cot.

 

“Careful.” She’s by his side again, touching his shoulder, and he whimpers, pushing away.

 

“Stop, stop! Stop touching me!” he demands, and she again backs away.

 

“You’re safe now, okay? I told you. You’re okay. You can go home. Where are you from? Big Town? Arefu?”

 

“Megaton,” Max says, and then shakes his head. “No, I can’t go—I need to get him back.”

 

“Charon, right?” She shrugs off some sort of overcoat, hangs it on a shelf. “I didn’t see any other kids with them. I don’t think they had anyone else.”

 

“No. No, they took him. They took him. He _left_ me...they made him leave me! I...ah, _God_ , it _hurts…_ ” He trails off, moaning and grabbing at his chest again, pressing the heel of his hand against the wound and massaging it in an attempt to get any relief at all from the ache.

 

“Sit down,” she says, and he does, less because she told him to and more because he really, really isn’t doing so good anymore and he doesn't feel like falling onto the hard floor. She comes closer, holding out the needle again that he only sees when it gets way too close to him, and he jerks back.

 

“Stop! Don’t do that! No!”

 

“It’ll make the pain stop.” She sounds confused, like she still doesn’t understand she shouldn’t be _drugging_ people, and Max scowls up at her.

 

“I don’t want to sleep anymore!”

 

“Right,” she scoffs, turning away to start up the stove in the corner. “You’re gonna storm Paradise Falls. Like this. Alone. Without armor, or guns, a week after you got _sniped._ Makes sense.”

 

“A week?” Max echoes, feeling an awful, cold dread spread up through him. “No. That’s...that’s too long, I…” He pauses, catching his breath and squinting at her.

 

She’s been taking care of him for a _week?_ A stranger? Why?

 

“You saved my life,” he murmurs, and she hums.

 

“I did. You’re welcome, by the way.”

 

“No, I...thank you. _Thank_ you. I...I...why? _How?_ ”

 

Rummaging through something on the other side of the room, she’s casual with her response, as if she does it all the time. “I was takin’ shelter a little ways down, since they were here. I heard the shot, saw you fall, and followed you until I could get a rope to you. And that was that.” She pours something into a pot and stirs, looking over at him again. “You’re _strong_ , kid, I gotta give you that. All the blood you lost, the fever you had...and here you are. And _why_ did I? Well. I don’t let kids die. That’s about all there is to it.” She shifts her weight, almost like she’s uncomfortable, and adds, “Looks like you’ve been through enough, anyway.”

 

Max wraps his arms around himself and shivers. _P_ _sycho whore._ “Th-thank you,” he whispers, trying to focus, trying to get their voices out of his head. “Thank you. I have to go, now, but thank you.”

 

She sighs. “Can you at least eat something first?”

 

His stomach growls, painfully, and he shrugs. He doesn't feel very good...but he supposes he'll need the energy, won't he? The energy to fight...to even  _walk..._ God, he's going to die the second he steps foot outside.

 

“I can help you out,” she adds, “if you’ll let me.”

 

“Help me...get him back?”

 

“Probably not that,” she says, “but I can help you get to Megaton. You said that’s your home, right? You’ll need guns, armor, ammo…”

 

“I need to…”

 

“I know. I know, kid, trust me. You’ve been calling out for him this whole time. I feel awful I couldn’t get him, too. I just didn’t have the ammo to take ‘em all out. But you need a plan, or you’re gonna die. And you’re gonna need glasses, too.”

 

Max blinks hard, frowning up at her. “You...have them?”

 

“Not yours. Not here. But…” She comes closer, dangles her own pair of glasses out for him to see. “I know where you can get them.”

 

“You do?” His face breaks into a grin, and he feels his eyes tearing up in utter relief. “Yes! Yes, please! Let’s go! Where?”

 

“Town a few miles from here. Megaton ain’t that much further.”

 

“Please, yes! Thank you, thank you!” He grins, reaches out in an attempt to hug her before he can really realize what he’s doing, and she flinches, pulling back before he can.

 

It’s unexpected. The wary look in her eyes reminds him too much of Charon, and he scoots back, quickly apologizes. “I just...thank you, um…”

 

“Yeah,” she finally says, scooping some stew into a bowl and handing it to him. “Soon as you can walk, we’ll head out. Alright?”

 

Carefully, Max takes the bowl, and then shakes his head. “We have to go now. You don’t know. They’re going to hurt him. I love him, and I can’t let that happen. He’s been hurt enough.”

 

She smiles, wearily, and gestures at the stew. “Eat. Then we’ll go.”

 

Max nods, shoveling the food down his throat, and then hands it back, standing up. The pain makes his stomach lurch and he's nearly sick, but he keeps mostly steady, grimacing. “Okay. Okay, can we…?”

 

She looks him over, doubtfully. “You want something for the pain?”

 

He rubs at his chest again, hesitantly nodding, and then approaches him with the syringe again, dipping it into a small glass vial and pulling the plunger back.

 

“I’ll only give you a little,” she says as he shrinks back. “Promise, okay? It’s just like Med-X. Little stronger.”

 

“O-okay,” he finally says, nodding again, and winces as she sticks it into his arm. Almost immediately the pain is lessened, and his limbs tingle with warmth, and he smiles, his eyelids drooping. Not too tired...and after another minute he’s delightfully numb, humming. He wants to lay back down, wants to curl up with…

 

_Charon._

 

He shakes himself, clears his throat. “Okay. I’m…”

 

“Better?”

 

“...Yeah. A lot.”

 

“Alright.” She grabs her coat and bag, opening the door and gesturing Max out. “Then let’s get you home.”

 

**x**

 

It’s a few hours before they reach the city, having to stop every ten minutes or so for Max to rest, but eventually Elodie leads him right into a crumbling building that has Max gasping in delight, grabbing one of the eyeglass frames scattered across the floor, handling it like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held. It is. It _is,_ especially as he realizes where Elodie is going, following her into the back.

 

“How'd you know about this?” he asks, running his fingers along the equipment in the while she goes through rotting wooden drawers across the hall.

 

“I'm an old woman,” she chuckles, pulling them out. “I’ve been around a while. I never had the best vision, either. So when it started to get worse, I went to any town I could find, tryin’ to find somethin’ to use, and it just so happens I came across the one eyeglass store that still has its shit in what might be the entire Capital Wasteland. It's great, ain't it?”

 

"You know how to use this stuff?”

 

“Pfft, hell no. Come over here. Trial and error. Just keep lookin’ through these lenses until somethin’ helps.”

 

Max isn’t the least bit disappointed, starting to search through them, holding each and every one up to his eyes. He’d really thought for a while that he would somehow have to learn to live like this...it’s probably a miracle this place is still around.

 

“Tell me about your friend,” she says, settling down and lighting up a cigarette, and Max pauses.

 

“He smokes, too,” he finally says, continuing. “I like how it smells.”

 

She hums, blowing out smoke. “Bad habit.” And when he only shrugs, she adds, “How’d you get caught up with those slavers, anyway?”

 

Max sighs loudly and tosses one of the lenses away.

 

“ _Hey_. I'm sure we ain’t the only ones who come here. Don’t do that.”

 

“Sorry. I just...it fuckin’ hurts again, and I’m _angry._ It was my fault. It was my fault. He’s there because of me.” He has to stand up straight again, rubbing the scar, and she reaches into her bag.

 

“‘Nother bad habit,” she says, shaking the little bottle of medication. “You actually need it, though. Just gotta take it easy. Changes you, if you take it too often. I would know. Barely got myself off. Only use it as an occasional vacation, now.”

 

Max hesitates, his brows knitting together, and then he shakes his head. “No, I don’t want…” He licks his lips. Yes, he _does_ want, and that’s the problem. Whatever it is, it’s the best he’s _ever_ felt, and it frightens him how he almost can’t stop himself from going over to her. Somehow he manages to go back to the lenses, and then eventually says, “I walked us right into them. And they took his, ah…”

 

“His what?”

 

“...Contract,” he finishes at length, not seeing much of a reason to go around it, and she coughs.

 

“His what? His contract?” she asks, with an accusatory squint that immediately makes him regret his decision. “What does that mean?”

 

“He was, um...hurt,” Max tries, slowly. “A long time ago, and...it...it’s not...he’s not a—”

 

“Slave?” She scoffs, stubbing her cigarette out. “Did I save the life of a slaver in the makin’?”

 

“I’m not a fuckin’ slaver,” he growls, glaring at her as sharply as he can. “He’s a bodyguard. _My_ bodyguard. He just protects whoever holds his contract, and they stole it!”

 

“Stole your slave.”

 

“He’s not my slave! I’ve been trying to get rid of it, okay? I—I love him, I love him more than anything ever, and he loves me back, and I saved him.”

 

“You _saved_ him? So...he’s not your slave. He’s...your boyfriend? Your bodyguard boyfriend who isn’t allowed to leave. Except if someone takes his contract.”

 

“You don’t know anything,” he hisses. “Fuck you. _You_ can leave.”

 

“Very nice, kid,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m just tryin’ to understand why you’re so willin’ to kill yourself for him. So, it’s because you love him.” She purses her lips, looking him over. “Sure don’t look like a slaver.”

 

“Because I’m _not._ ”

 

“Alright. Not a slaver, then, we’ll say. Don’t think any of them would be this worried over a slave, anyway.”

 

Max rolls his eyes and heaves out an exasperated sigh. “He’s not—holy shit, I can see.” He looks over at her, holding one lens over his eye, and she cracks a smile at him. She is much older, he realizes now, with weather-worn skin and weary eyes, her gray hair tied back.

 

“Good,” she says, nodding. “Grab a few. Keep going for the other.”

 

Max sets the lenses aside, leans over again, and clenches his teeth, pressing his hand to his chest again.

 

“Kid...why torture yourself? I'm fuckin’ _offering_ you an escape. Take it.”

 

He moans softly, and then makes his way over to her, sitting and holding his arm out again. The sting of the needle makes him whimper, and tears prick at his eyes, and then he’s crying, rubbing his face.

 

“He’s a slave,” he whispers. “He’s _my_ slave, but I don’t want him to be! I want him to be free. I want him to be free more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I-I don’t order him around! I don’t. I’ve never hurt him, I-I never would! But they…” He slumps a little as it takes effect, eyelids fluttering for a moment before he steadies again. “They will. They coulda...made him hurt me. They coulda made him kill me. He was…”

 

He suddenly remembers the pistol against his chest, his forehead, the look in Charon’s eyes as his finger drew closer to the trigger. He remembers Charon shoving him to the ground and telling him he was _nothing,_ that he had never wanted a damn thing, and—

 

“He was gonna kill me,” he mumbles suddenly, frowning.

 

That has her genuinely looking startled. “What?”

 

He shakes his head, sniveling. How could he have forgotten about it until now? All of it? He's been so damn foggy, drugged, and trying to refuse to think about all the awful things they'd done, what they'd threatened to do...what _Charon_ had threatened to do.

 

But he remembers, now, too clearly. There was no mistaking that look; Charon had been going to _shoot_ him. He had said Max was taking _advantage_ of him. How the fuck did he just _not think_ about something like that?

 

“He was...he couldn’t...he couldn’t kill her. I didn’t want to leave him. And he said he’d _kill_ me if I didn’t. He was—he was gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

 

She doesn’t say anything at that, and he doesn’t continue, just stares out at the rubble in complete silence until she puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“But he loves me,” he says. “I thought he...why would he…?”  

 

“Maybe he thought it’d be better than bein’ a slave,” she says, and lights up another cigarette. “I mean...he’d know, wouldn’t he?”

 

**x**

The trip to Megaton takes about two days, mostly because Max keeps needing to stop and sleep for a few hours. She doesn't seem to mind his company so much anymore, and even converses with him a little over meals, even when Max is too dazed out to really be listening.

 

As they rest a final time before the last stretch of walking, when she’s not paying attention, Max slips the vial of medication and capped syringe out of her bag and into his pocket, holds his hand over it and two spare pairs of glasses (neither as pretty as the bright pink ones he has on now) that are snugly tucked away there. She looks at him oddly, once, in a way that makes him fear she knows, but she says nothing, and even gives him the slightest of hugs as they arrive at the town.

 

“Take care of yourself,” she says, “whatever you decide to do.”

 

They talked some more about it, he thinks, at some point during their trip, but then he'd exaggerated the pain, doubled over and sobbed until she dosed him with more than he really needed, and he can't remember much else. Dramatic, his dad had always called him, before anyone knew what he did to himself at night. A talented actor.

 

He wasn't _acting_ whenever he came home with a bloody nose and bruises. He wasn't just being _dramatic_ when he stopped wanting to wake up.  

 

But his dad is dead, so anything he thought doesn't really matter anymore, does it?

 

He shrugs in response to her, eyes only half-lidded, and she reaches out to touch his hair.

 

Max flinches, startled, and squints up at her. She hasn't touched him in such a way before, almost...familial, and she smiles.

 

“You just...remind me of my brother.”

 

“You said you didn’t have a family,” Max says, and she pulls out a cigarette.

 

“I haven’t for a long time,” she says, and without another word starts off, her smoke trailing back to him.

 

He doesn’t like the smell so much anymore.

 

x

 

Pounding on his front door is what wakes him up, and he groans softly, looking around. He doesn’t recall laying down, or falling asleep, or burying his face into Charon’s pillow and drenching it in tears. He shoves it away, disgusted, and drags himself out of bed, down the stairs, searching for the vial for a moment before growling in frustration and yanking the door open when they _won’t stop knocking._

 

“Fucking _what?_ ” he snaps, and is suddenly dragged forward and into a too-tight, crushing hug.

 

“Max,” Gob says, nuzzling against his shoulder and grasping gently at his hair. “We thought you were dead. Nobody’d seen you in so long, we—”

 

“Let go,” Max mutters, and Gob immediately does, stepping back, confused.

 

“Are you okay? Where’s Charon?”

 

“No.” And he turns, nudging the door closed. Either it doesn’t shut completely or Gob just doesn’t _care,_ because he pushes it open again and comes inside, watching Max grow increasingly agitated as he looks for something.

 

“Where's Charon?” he asks again, and Max still doesn't reply.

 

“Max? Hey! What's going on?”

 

“Go away.”

 

“What?”

 

“I said go away!” Max snaps, throwing a shoe at him. “Go! Leave me alone.”  

 

Gob lets the shoe bounce off his chest, staring down at it like he has no idea what it is, and then up at Max like he's _crazy_. “Why…? Where is he?”

 

“I don't care.”

 

“You don't...care?” Gob asks, frowning, and looks around again. No shotgun against the wall. No armor folded neatly on the desk. Charon is definitely not here, and he's really starting to worry as he approaches Max again. “What does that mean? Max. _Max._ What happened?”

 

“I don't wanna talk about it!” Max hisses, swatting in his direction, and Gob tries to hide his flinch. Max wouldn't hit him, he tries to remind himself. He's just distraught, and...if this is all about  _Charon,_ then does that mean...?

 

“Is he...is he…” He licks his lips, bites his tongue, and doesn't even want to continue. “He’s _alive,_ isn't he? Is he…?”

 

“Probably," Max says, nonchalantly, as he tosses things around. "I don't know. He was. Where the fuck _is_ it? Gob, I want to be alone. Go away.”

 

Gob picks something up from off the floor, rolled half under the couch, as it catches his attention. He scoffs, grits his teeth, and demands, “Are you _high?_ ”

 

Max whips around, looking mildly panicked, and then snatches the vial out of Gob’s hand, grunting. “No. It's for pain. I was shot.”

 

“You were _shot?”_

 

“Yeah, you wanna see?” He lifts his shirt up and points to the scar, and then to the dark bruises still littering his skin. “And here's where I got beat by one of them because I bit him. His arm, not his dick. He didn't get to try. But he wanted to. He was gonna.”

 

“Max,” Gob breathes out, stepping closer with his hands out, like maybe he plans on touching Max, too, but Max has had fucking _enough_ of anyone's hands on him, and he slaps Gob's wrist _hard_ , yanking his shirt back down.

 

“Don't touch me. Never touch me again.” He only realizes then that he'd shown Gob the scars on his hips just then, too, but does it really matter? No. Nothing matters. Nothing except feeling better, and he needs to take the medicine for that.

 

“Okay,” Gob says, slowly, his tone cautious as he rubs his wrist. “Okay, I'm sorry. Please, Max, talk to me. _Please._ What happened to you?"

 

"I don't wanna talk about it. I don't wanna talk to you at all!"

 

"...Who were they? Do they have him? Where did they go?”

 

“Probably,” he says. “They were going to Paradise Falls.”

 

Gob flinches, and unmasked devastation falls over his features. “Slavers,” he whispers, “they were slavers. They have Charon…”

 

“They had me, too, if you give a fuck.”

 

“What?” Gob draws closer, just a bit, more than a little nervous with how Max is acting. “Of course I do! Of course I care! I care so much about you, Max! You saved my life! And Nova's! Anything you want, let me get it for you, okay? But it’s—you're here, Max! You're safe! You're back! He's still—”

 

“He was gonna kill me,” he interrupts, and Gob gets a stupid look on his face, like he doesn't believe it, and Max wants to shove him out the door, and maybe over the fucking railing. He needs to be alone. His chest hurts again.

 

“They...they told him to…?” Gob finally manages, and Max drops himself down onto the couch, his hands shaking as he pushes the needle into the vial.

 

“No. They didn't make him do anything. He told me he hated me, and he pushed me down, and said if I didn't go he would shoot me.” His body trembles a bit more violently, and he adds, “He put...he put a fucking gun to my head and _cocked_ it.”

 

“Max,” Gob breathes, coming closer, sitting in the chair like Max invited him to stay, like he doesn't want to _fucking be alone._  

 

“How do you just...kill someone? Unless you fucking _hate_ them? He told me he did. He told me he never wanted anything we did. I just took advantage of him like everyone else, so obviously I fucking deserved to die. I wish I'd died.” He sniffles, pointing the needle to his arm, and then Gob is kneeling before him, taking his hands in an attempt to stop him.

 

“He doesn't hate you,” he says, quietly. “He doesn't. He doesn't. He just wanted you to _leave_ him. He couldn't protect you anymore, and he had to make you  _g_ _o_.” 

 

“He was going to _kill_ me,” Max says again, scowling. “How's that not hate?”

 

“You know it's not. Somewhere you _have_ to know that. He cares for you, Max! You need to go get him back!”

 

“...No.”

 

“What do you mean _no?_ ”

 

“I mean _no!_ ” he says, louder, and kicks his foot out, forcing Gob to let go in order to dodge it. “I said no! I'm not going back! I can't. I _can't._ Are you fucking crazy? They'll be there. They'll take me back. I'm not fucking going back, Gob! You don't...you don't know. They...they said...no. _No._ They were gonna…” He stops, and so vaguely recalls Charon turning himself around and holding onto Max when Mercy had held a gun to him, but...but then it's blank, and he doesn't remember anything else, and he doesn't know how the hell he got out of that, but if it was Charon...then why...why would he save him just to give up and kill him? Because Charon wanted to do it _himself?_ No. It just doesn't make any sense. Nothing makes any sense anymore. His head hurts...

 

“They'll hurt me,” he finally continues, trembling. “They already tried. That one. He touched me, he touched me _everywhere,_ and I can still feel his _hands,_ and I'd rather fucking die. I'll slit my throat. I'll fuckin’ do it. I'll do it! Don't think I won't!”

 

“Okay,” Gob whispers, holding his hands out, carefully. With how on edge Max is, he's even more afraid than usual to make a wrong move. “Okay. Max...Max, I'm so sorry. What can I do? Please let me help. I want to help you.”

 

“No, you don't! You just want me to go get him! You don't care about me. Nobody fuckin’ cares about me. Not even my dad. My _dad_ didn't even love me, my _slave_ didn't even care about me. And good! They fuckin’ shouldn't! I hate my stupid dead dad, and I hate Charon!”

 

“No, you _don’t!”_ Gob protests, as if he knows anything at all about how Max feels. “He cared for you, Max! You know he did! You weren't hurting him. You saw the way he looked at you. I- _I_ saw the way he looked at you. I wish—” He cuts off, before he can say something that _really_ fucks it all up, like _I wish he looked at me like that._ “I want you to save him, because he _cares_ about you, and I care about him. I care about you, too.”

 

“But you're trying to send me back.”

 

“Not alone! You don't have to go alone!”

 

“What, are _you_ gonna come with me?” Max laughs, callously.

 

Gob flinches, just slightly, and moves back.

 

“You've never been out there. You're a fucking _coward,_ Gob.”

 

“I'd die,” he replies, slowly. “I'd be no help. I'm not skilled like you are.”

 

“Oh, yeah! Fuck lotta good skill did for me!"

 

“Max...please. _Please._ You can't leave him there. You can't do that.”

 

“Watch me,” Max says, moving the needle, and Gob stands up, knocks it out of his hand.

 

“No,” he says, “n-no, I...I won't let you do that. You can't do that. You can't leave him there! After everything you've been through, everything _he's_ been through, you're just—” He grabs the vial, steps back and out of Max’s reach.

 

“You're not going to stay here and get _high_ while he's there!”

 

“I'll do what I fucking want,” Max says, getting to unsteady feet. “I need that. Give it back.”

 

“We’ll find people to go with you, someone to keep you safe—”

 

“He couldn't even keep me safe! I said no! Give it to me! I'm not dying for him! I'm not getting turned into a fuckin’—a fuckin’ _sex toy_ for him! He'd understand. He wouldn't want me to come, if he did care. But he doesn't, and I'm not gonna.”

 

“How long have you been taking this stuff?” Gob asks, suddenly concerned. “What even _is_ it? This isn't...this isn't you. Max wouldn't leave him there. I know he wouldn't. He would do  _anything_ to get him back!"

 

"Max is fucking dead,” he says, and holds his hand out for the vial. “I feel _nothing_ for _anyone_.”

 

Gob looks at him, breathing harshly, and then at his outstretched hand.

 

And then he drops the vial, shattering it against the floor.  

 

He startles. He hadn't expected himself to actually do it when the thought came across his mind. And when he looks up, Max is staring wide-eyed down at the liquid already seeping into the wood, useless. Max lets out a strangled sound, and Gob takes a step forward, an apology halfway out of his mouth before Max's fist slams into it.

 

He definitely didn't expect that, either; would _never_ have expected that. He staggers back with a cry and cowers, cupping both hands over his split lip, and Max jumps back, his hands up.

 

“No,” he says, slowly. “No, Gob, _please,_ I didn't mean to do that, I didn't—I'm so sorry! I didn't—”    

 

It takes a minute for Gob to recover. He hasn't been struck since Moriarty died, and he finds himself shaking, the instinct to plea and apologize that had been beaten into him making him press harder against his mouth until he's sure nothing will come out. Then he swallows hard, licks blood off his lip, and takes another step back, finally looking back up.

 

Max is watching him, warily, grinding his teeth, his eyes watery, and Gob finds he's  _angry,_ angrier than he's been in a long, long time.

 

“Did you hit Charon, too?” he asks, coldly, and Max puts his hands over his own mouth, shaking his head.

 

“I never hit him,” he whispers, “I never hurt him.”  

 

“No,” Gob says, and turns to leave before he says anything else he'll regret. “You're just going to leave him to rot.”

 

Max moans softly when he's alone, and sinks down to his knees, claws at the dampness on the floor and ends up cutting his finger on a piece of glass. No. No. It can't be gone. He needs it. He _needs_ it. It hurts, his head hurts, everything fucking hurts, and he wants to—

 

He stands up, smashes the glass under his feet until he couldn't pick up a piece if he tried.

 

It wouldn't make him feel as good as whatever the vial had held. _Nothing_ could make him feel like that, but he thinks Med-X might be close enough, and he's got enough of them to forget for at least a little while.

 

He doesn't want to hurt anymore, not ever again. He wants serenity, warmth, numbness, _peace._

 

He doesn't have room for any more scars, anyway.

 

**x**

 

He sleeps against Charon's pillow until it stops smelling like him, and stays inside until he runs out of Med-X. He doesn't acknowledge the knocks on his door, Nova once and the Sheriff another. They don't matter. He doesn't want to hear anything they have to say to him, knows they're just going to yell at him about what he can't do.

 

He doesn't know how he had ever thought he could go back. Charon doesn't deserve to be with slavers, of course, even if Max did completely hate him, but neither does Max. And Max has decided that what _he_ wants is more important. He wants not to be hurt again. He wants not to be touched again. He wants to be here, warm, _safe_. He wants to be happy.

 

And he is, until he wakes up and can't find another dose. He tears his house apart, cursing, and then finally yanks on dirty clothes and stumbles outside, wincing at the sunlight he hasn't fully been exposed to in who the fuck cared how long.

 

He groggily makes his way down to the clinic, cursing at Church when he won't sell him anything ("Yeah, don't think I didn't notice there was a hell of a lot less ether in that jar than I had before, after you came in. Unless you want some treatment, get the hell out."), and then goes up to see Moira.

 

“I helped you,” he says, “so...so you gotta help me, okay?”

 

Moira comes closer, so carefully reaches out and strokes his hair. “Oh, Max. You look awful. When’s the last time you ate anything?”

 

“Not hungry. Just need Med-X.” He pulls away, itching at his arm as she does nothing but stare at him in pity he doesn't want. “Please? Please. I'll do anything. I'll go help you more with your book! What do you want?”

 

“I don't want anything from you, Max-y,” she says, sighing. “I'm just not going to give you drugs. I'll keep an eye out for Addictol with any of the traders, but it's just so darn hard to come by.”

 

“I don't want that!”

 

“Well, you _need_ it. Obviously.”  

 

“I _need_ Med-X! I'm in pain! You can't even do this! I thought you were my friend!”

 

Moira looks him over with another even heavier sigh, no doubt judging just how _pathetic_ he is. “Where's Charon, Max? Why isn't he with you anymore? Did he…get hurt?”

 

“No,” Max mutters, sighing and rubbing his eyes. “He's just...gone.”  

 

“Oh,” she says, sadly, and Max sighs.

 

“You liked him better than me, too.”

 

She frowns, tilting her head. “What? Max, I never even _talked_ to him. You just cared so much for him...I'm just sorry.”

 

“Not sorry enough to help me feel better,” he snaps, turning to leave, and he's too preoccupied with how the hell he's gonna manage to find some fucking Med-X to notice the door open.

 

He bumps right into Nova, who crosses her arms and looks down at him with a disdain Max has only seen her direct at Jericho or Moriarty before.

 

“Hi, Max,” she says, and grabs his shirt. “Let's talk.” And then she yanks him outside and pushes him up against the wall.

 

“First and foremost,” she says, “if you _ever_ lay a hand on Gob again, I promise, I _promise_ that you will regret it. We clear? Good.” And the fury fades just as quickly as it came; she releases him with just a hand on his shoulder, straightening his collar, and gives him a tiny smile.

 

“ _Max._ You mean so much to us, okay? You really, really do. You know you do. Without you...we'd still be trapped with Colin. But you bought Charon's contract. You do realize that, right? You chose to take on that responsibility. You don't get to just—throw a tantrum and let him die out there.”

 

“I'm not—”

 

“I know. And I know you're hurting. I know, and I'm so, so sorry. You're too young to have been through what you have,  _everything_ you have. But you know, Max, you know you can't do that to him. You know he's hurting, too. He needs you. He  _needs_ you. Gob told me about the contract…it doesn't allow violence unless he messes up, or lets them get hurt.”

 

“Yeah…”

 

“Yeah. He also told me Charon failed, once, in Underworld. Let that Ahzrukhal bastard get punched by a drunk, and said Ahzrukhal broke some of his fingers for it. Gob...he thinks it's  _his_ fault, for distracting Charon enough he didn't catch it in time."  

 

“Wh-what?” Max chokes, shaking his head. “No, he...he never told me that...he—”  

 

“If some stupid worthless falling-apart ghoul did that to him,” she interrupts, “what do you think an entire town of human slavers could do to him? Slavers that already hate ghouls and suddenly have one that can't fight back?"

 

Max's blood runs cold, and his eyes go wide. “No. No, _no,_ he—he can't fail, he won't fail, he—”

 

“He _could,_ ” Nova says, gently twisting a finger into one of his curls. “He could. You know he could. And you know what they could do. You know how much they could hurt him, how badly, and you know he doesn't deserve that. However mad at him you are...you know he doesn't deserve that.”

 

Max whimpers, starts to shake, and leans against her. “No. No. He doesn't. He doesn't. I'm so mad. I'm so _sad._ But please... _please_ …I don't wanna go back. They'll know it's me. They'll see me. They'll take me and they'll hurt me and he’ll still be there!”

 

“Max,” she breathes, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, and he melts against her with a sob; she has to grab him to keep him on his feet.

 

“Let us help you. Please?”

 

“You'll…” He sniffles, accidentally wipes his nose on her sleeve, but she doesn't seem to mind. “You'll help me? Come...come with me?”

 

“I have an idea,” she says, “where you wouldn't even _need_ anyone to come with you. But you have to trust me. And you _can't_ take any more Med-X. You've had a few days to recover. Any longer, and...you might not be able to find him again."

 

For a second, Max isn't sure it’s worth it.

 

And then he remembers Charon kissing him, holding him tight, promising to protect him. He remembers his promise to never let anyone hurt him again.

 

And he clings to her, and nods.

 

“O-okay.”

 

**x**

 

 

The first thing they do is cut his hair, short enough that he cries, grasping the pieces in his hands like it's tragic. But it's not. He won't be noticed anymore, if he's not pretty. No slaver will call him _cute,_ or _just like a little girl._ No. No, he doesn't want to be a girl anymore. He never wants his hair long again, and he tosses the pink eyeglass frames into one of his drawers, replacing it with thick black ones. 

 

They match his hair, after Nova massages dye into his scalp, turning his amber locks about as dark as they can get, and he cries about that, too. He doesn't even  _want_ to be pretty anymore. It doesn't matter. It doesn't fucking matter, so  _why_ is he crying?

 

He stops when he raises his hand to touch his wet cheek, staring at himself in the mirror, and Gob flinches away so violently he stumbles, then lowers his head.

 

“I'm sorry,” Max whispers, choking back the tears he doesn't deserve to allow to fall.

 

“I know,” Gob replies, quietly, and says nothing else.

 

They return almost all the caps Max had given to them, and use some to make him practically unrecognizable, even to himself. Moira fits him with boots that add an extra three inches of height, a handkerchief to cover his face, spiked raider armor, and two new guns at a far lower cost than they're worth; Max repays her kindness by swiping two doses of Med-X out of her supply box when neither her nor her bodyguard are looking.

 

He doesn't inject the whole thing, just a bit, and it’s only because he can't stop _shaking_. He needs steady hands if he's gonna trek across the fucking Wasteland for someone who was going to kill him.

 

But who had supposedly loved him before…

 

Or had been lying. Maybe everybody was lying. It's a lot easier not to care with relaxation flowing through his veins.

 

“You'll be safe,” Nova says, her face twisted up in concern like she _cares._ “Right?”

 

“I guess,” Max murmurs. He's tired. He doesn't care. As long as he doesn't end up a slave, it really doesn't matter what happens to him. He might not even make it there in the first place.

 

But Charon. Charon had saved him more than once, had made him feel so happy and _okay_ for the first time in his life, and Max needs to repay that. He never deserved to be saved; he never deserved someone as kind as Charon to take care of him, especially when he treated him so bad. He has to get Charon away from them. It's just for a different reason, now.

 

“Be careful,” Gob says, softly; his face is wary, distrustful. He doesn't think Max is going to come back, let alone with Charon by his side.

 

“Okay,” Max murmurs, and walks out of the safety of Megaton, into the unforgiving Wasteland he never wanted to return to.

 

 

**x**

 

It’s days, so many he lost track, before Max finally reaches Paradise Falls.

 

The possibility of Charon no longer even being here, the trip entirely a waste of time, has not left his mind since he started out. But he finds Med-X along the way, gives himself just enough to keep calm, and keeps going. If Charon is gone, at least he tried. He tried. They can't hate him at home any more if he tried. He can go back, lay down in his bed, and drug himself to death in peace.

 

Nobody really bothers him in his trip. To anyone else, he supposes he looks like a raider now, someone not to be fucked with. He takes out stray animals, and hardly sleeps from fear, but he comes across no slavers, no one who could threaten his freedom, until he arrives to the one place he too-late concludes he should never, never have let himself be convinced to go to; not for Charon, not for anyone.

 

But he's here now. There's no turning back.

 

He pulls the bandana up over his nose, eases his gait into a casual stroll, and goes up to the man guarding it.

 

“Where’s Mercy?” he growls out, keeping his voice as low and as gravelly as he can.

 

The man makes a face and laughs, leaning back. “You know Mercy? You look a little young to be in the business…”

 

“I sold a slave to her. She told me to come back if I ever wanted to do more trade. And I do.”

 

“Oh? Well,” the man says, glancing around behind him. “Where is it? The trade?”

 

He hadn't planned on talking this much. There was no script he prepared. But he briefly recalls the towns Elodie mentioned, and without missing too much of a beat, says, “Big Town. Left them there to make sure we had a deal, first.”

 

“Big Town,” he responds, and his face breaks into a delighted smirk. “Red? That's her name? The doctor there?”

 

“That was it, yeah.”

 

“Oohwee, kiddo, we’ve tryin’ to find someone to go get that bitch for weeks! But unfortunately, ol’ Mercy’s a little dead.”

 

The surprise he portrays is too real. “D-dead?”

 

“Yep. Things got a little rowdy a few weeks back. Shame. She was our best. Anyway, you can come on in and talk to her second, Jackson—”

 

“No—” Max chokes out, shuddering as he takes a step back. _Hands, all over him—_ “ _No._ I want...I want to talk to…”

 

“Mercy’s _dead_ , kid. What's with your ears?”

 

He wracks his brain for any name, any name at all, struggling as the man’s eyes narrow even further, and shit, he _knows,_ and Max is fucked, he's going to be taken back—

 

“Actually, you know? He might be out on a meat run anyway. He's not around too often. You can talk to Jones, if you want.”

 

The breath whooshes out of Max, making him feel weak with relief. “Yeah, Jones.” The Med-X has definitely worn off, and he's shaking again, and he shifts around to try and hide it.

 

The slaver quirks his eyebrow, stares for a minute, and then shrugs. “Alright then, go on. You been here before?”

 

“Nah. Just with Mercy.”

 

“Well, door’s through this walk on the right. Tell ‘em Grouse sent you.”

 

“Than—think you, uh, you got…” Max scratches his head, flushing, but Grouse only stares at him in mild annoyance, didn't hear the _thank you_ Max had almost let slip.

 

 _Slavers sure don't fucking say please and thank you._ What is wrong with him? He's so terrifyingly on the edge of having this whole thing fall apart, blow up in his face, and it makes him _angry._ They shouldn't have forced him to come. He shouldn't be risking his freedom over someone who he couldn't even help aside from keeping him in his own possession instead of anyone else's. He shouldn't be risking his life for someone who had been going to _end it._

 

He needs more Med-X, can feel it in his pocket, but he's afraid to make any sudden moves. He just walks, ignoring the jeers as he enters.

 

“Who are you here to see, hm? Or are you one of the slaves?”

 

Max unsheathes his combat knife, just barely, and bares his teeth. “Do I look like a fucking slave?" he hisses. "Do I fucking _sound_ like one? Huh? Because I will  _happily_ prove you wrong.”

 

The slaver purses his lips, almost like he's impressed, and then waves him on. Max whirls around, livid, and then keeps going until he notices a small crowd, almost turning back when they notice him.

 

“Who the fuck let you in here, Princess?”

 

 _Not a princess. Not a girl. Not pretty. Not for your fucking eyes to stare at. Not for your disgusting fucking hands to touch._ Max clenches his fists again, and then takes one step forward before he stops dead, glaring down at the hunched over, shaking figure in the middle of the sand. His arms are bare, showing the ragged and torn surface of his body, he's huge even on his knees, there's no mistaking that it’s—

 

“ _You,_ ” he spits, and takes three steps forward, swings his fist, and slams it as hard as he can into Charon's face.

 

Charon yelps and sprawls onto his side, clamping both hands over his nostrils as they start to gush blood.

 

“Holy shit,” one of the slavers laughs, and a few more of them join in chuckling.

 

“Nice hook!”

 

Charon looks up, grimacing, and meets his dazed eyes to Max's own. Recognition falls over his face, slowly, and then suddenly he jerks back, choking out his name, and...

 

Max has _never_ seen Charon look so completely terrified before. He looks like...

 

_Christ._

 

He looks like he's seen a ghost.


	31. Haunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the little break, I've been going through some stuff and didn't feel up to writing, but I think I'm back now! I'm never giving up on this, don't worry, it's my child :3 I hope you enjoy! It's like...10,000 words :O Next chapter is also practically done, will be up on time, and there's finally some actual comfort in it...bless.
> 
> WARNING for talk of abuse and (past) rape/non-con, and mentions of suicidal thoughts, (past) attempted rape/non-con, and (past) torture.

He looks so _different_ ; Charon doesn't know how he even recognized him. His hair, cut so short and darkened, his spiked armor, all completely out of place, and the furious growl that comes out of his mouth is  _frightening_ as he raises his hand as if to strike again the moment Charon says his name.

 

Charon can't stop himself from flinching, from bringing his arm up to shield his face and pulling away. His mind blanks, the only thought being that he just can't handle anymore pain right now, has to avoid it, has to _submit and obey and...please, no more_.

 

A second blow doesn't land, although he finds he really expected it to. Instead, Eulogy calls, “Hey now!” and approaches them to stop it, as if he hasn't been _thriving_ off of Charon's agony for _weeks_ , and Max steps back, puts his arms at his sides again.

 

But...no. That can't _really_ be Max. He's seeing wrong. He's delusional. He has to be, because Max wouldn't hurt him. Max wouldn't _hit_ him.

 

Max wouldn't _be_ here, because Max is _dead._

 

Eulogy reaches for Charon's rope, and Charon jerks away from him, too, on edge, sucking in breaths through clenched teeth.

 

“Easy there, relax,” Eulogy says, leaning over to hook his finger into the loop around Charon's neck and then tugging until Charon coughs and crawls over to kneel at his feet, taking hold of the length of rope again and wrapping it once around his wrist.

 

“This is my guard dog...ghoul,” Eulogy says, pushing on Charon's head until he lowers it and then patting him a little too hard as he sniffles and holds a hand over his nostrils again. “Don't worry about him. He doesn't bite...anymore. And he's _extremely_ valuable, so don't go damaging him, or any of my property, unless you’ll be paying me for it. Now, what can I do for you?”

 

Max—or whoever the hell it is; Max’s _ghost_ —releases a sharp breath. “Business.”

 

“Oh, really? Well then. Let's chat inside, shall we? Come, dog,” he says, yanking, and Charon slowly, slowly follows, dripping blood onto the sand. God, that _hurts_. Delusions can't _punch._ But then...that means…but that’s _impossible._

 

He cranes his head to the side, tries to catch a glimpse of who he saw _die,_ but then Eulogy roughly pulls the rope and nearly causes him to face-plant, and he decides it’s best, as usual, to keep his eyes to himself.

 

When they're inside, though, and Eulogy stops him beside his chair as he takes a seat and drops the rope, Charon can raise his head and really look at Max again, his eyes still wide in shock.

 

It just _can't be him._ It can't be. He saw the blood. He heard the shot. He heard the _thud_ and splash of his body hitting the river. But somehow, _somehow,_ he's there, looking down at Charon in a mix of pity and rage as he tugs his bandana down around his neck. He’s _there. Max..._

 

“Keep your head down,” Eulogy says, swatting him, and then grabs his hair and tugs, much quieter as he adds, “And don't think I didn't see what you did. You'll be lucky if I ever feed you again, you ungrateful little _fuck_. There'll be consequences.”

 

Charon stiffens. His last _consequence,_ for slapping away the hand of a slaver who tried to stroke under his chin, had been to support himself on the floor, in the position to do push-ups, with that one hand until his arm gave out. The one before that, for looking too long at the slaves in the pens, for ‘looking like’ he wanted to talk to them, had been no water for three days, until his mouth was too dry to say anything at all. He doesn't want to know what the man will do to him for this, for eating, for _moving_ without orders, but he’s going to _suffer,_ and he wishes he’d considered the outcome before acting.

 

Quickly, he tries to apologize, although he knows it's useless. “I am—”

 

“Shut your mouth,” Eulogy interrupts. “Look _down._ ”

 

Charon obeys, bracing himself on his hands and staring down at them, and then, briefly, at Max's feet when they draw closer, thoughts immediately back on him.

 

Max. _Max_. No. This...it just can't be real. He saw Max die. He saw Max thrown over a bridge to drown, if the bullet hadn't taken him. How is he standing here? And _why?_ Why would he _ever_ come back?

 

Has he...come back _for_ Charon? Has he...

 

Has he come to take Charon home?

 

He trembles with the emotion the thought brings upon him, wipes blood from his chin and closes his eyes, trying to focus only on keeping his breathing steady. It's too much. He's getting another headache. Home? It’s not _his_ home; he doesn’t have a home. He’s not _worth_ a home. That place is Max’s, and Max is _dead_ . Max has been dead for weeks. This can't be happening, not really. It can't. It just _can't._

 

“Now, what can I do for you, young man?” Eulogy asks, lighting a cigar, and Max doesn't hesitate.

 

“I want to buy a slave.”

 

It’s a _terrible_ thing for someone so pure to say, and Charon feels guilty, like it’s his fault, like he _forced_ the words from Max's mouth. In a way, though, he supposes he did. He shifts a little, too abruptly, and then cringes when Eulogy presses down on his shoulder, a warning for him to stop moving. Immediately he bows his head even further, puts his palms flat on the floor beside Eulogy's feet. Submission pleases his master more than anything else, he's learned, although it's been rare to have an employer who felt different; he quickly found pressing himself to the ground like this alleviated most anger, made the man chuckle instead of yell and sometimes spare him from punishment as he was praised for knowing his place.

 

He can't forget, not with the marks sliced into his back still burning him with every breath he takes.

 

Not that he ever could.

 

“Well,” Eulogy says, resting his other hand on the armrest again, and Charon supposes that means he was successful, breathing out slowly, relieved. 

 

"Then you and I are a perfect fit. You wanna buy ‘em, and I wanna sell ‘em. Tell me...what’re you looking for?”

 

“Obedience,” Max says. “Someone good with guns.”

 

Charon feels his heart skip, but he doesn't dare hope. Not yet, because he just won't be able to take the pain of being wrong.

 

“Mmm...girl?”

 

“I don't want them for sex,” Max snarls, and Eulogy laughs.

 

“Alright, alright! Didn't say that you did! I'm only tryin’ to find someone who's a good match for you. You know we don't really do returns. Someone good with guns…hmm. Well, you know what?” He settles his hand on Charon’s head, and Charon tenses despite it being exactly what he wants.

 

He doesn't like the reminder of all the times his contract has been auctioned off like this before, and all the times that _he,_ his obedience, his _submission_ , has been the offer.

 

“This one right here is as loyal as they come.”

 

Max hums, doubtfully; Charon can _feel_ his eyes scanning him over. Why...why is he looking at him like that? Like...like he is _nothing?_ An object? A—

 

“A _ghoul?_ ”

 

Eulogy hums. “Said you didn't want them for bed...although you know I wouldn't be one to judge if you were into that. He's an ugly old brute, but he's strong.” He reaches out, grabs one of Charon's arms and brings it up, pushing his sleeve up. “See? Good physique, good muscles.”

 

“He's starving,” Max growls, softly. “I saw him out there. He can't be that strong if you're not feeding him.”

 

Eulogy smirks. “Please. I take care of all my merchandise. He misbehaved, and he's being punished. That's all. Go on and find me a single man that ain't cut back a bad slave’s meals and I'll gladly change my ways. Sure he's on the thin side, but still in better shape than any of the other choices. We can still look at them, though, if this ain't good enough, but he's probably the best looking option we have, and the strongest. Don’t believe it? If you want, I can get his clothes off, but I'm really not sure you wanna see him _that_ close. Might be better just to trust me, because...it ain't a pretty sight.”

 

A shudder goes through Charon, his whole body jerking with it, and Eulogy glares at him, digging his nails into his skin and then tossing his arm down again. “He’s loyal, submissive, and you know...ghouls live a long time...you'd be able to get a good long use out of him. And the best part?” He settles a heavy hand onto the back of Charon's neck, and Charon startles again.

 

“He doesn't even need a collar. He’ll never leave you. He _can't_.”

 

Max laughs, the sound so sharp and derisive Charon _feels_ it pierce right through his chest.

 

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

 

He tenses. What? No. _No._ Is that—is that what Max thinks? That Charon had _left_ him? Charon didn't leave him. Charon watched him _die._ Max is dead. Max is _dead._ He's dead. This is some sort of hallucination, another nightmare, not real, not real, this _can't be real—_

 

“He's got a contract,” Eulogy says, sliding his hand up to roughly stroke Charon's hair; Charon grimaces, leaning to the side to avoid it and then quickly stilling himself when Eulogy grasps a handful and yanks him back into place. “He's unflinchingly obedient to whoever holds it. Follows their every command. Isn't that right, dog? Hm? _Speak._ ”

 

The words stick in his throat; it’s been a long time since he's sounded as downright pathetic as he does murmuring, “...Y-yes, Master.”

 

“Mm, I didn't quite catch that.”

 

Charon takes a slow breath and raises his voice, but only further lowers his head. “ _Yes_ , Master.”

 

“Good boy.”

 

Max shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable, but only says, “Prove it.”

 

Charon's brows knit together. _Prove it?_ Why? Why did they have to drag this out, to humiliate him further? He's already on his knees, the very picture of submission; what else could anyone want? Max knows...but...maybe he's putting on a show. Pretending he's unsure, unless...unless he  _is_ unsure.

 

“Hm. Alright. What do you want him to do? Tricks? Haven't really taught him any. Let’s see...roll over, dog,” Eulogy says, and Charon grits his teeth, tries to refuse, but it's near impossible to resist orders anymore, not with the constant, dull, throbbing pain at the base of his skull that constantly ebbs at his strength, that makes him willing to do anything to not have it get _worse_.

 

He leans forward, not really sure what is wanted of him, and then slumps onto his side, wincing.

 

“No, all the way,” Eulogy says, snapping his fingers. “ _Roll over."_

 

Charon scowls, and obeys. The pain that flares through his back as it scratches against the floor is blinding, and he sucks in a breath, stifling a groan as he positions himself back on his knees.

 

“See? Good dog.” And then Eulogy shoves his shoe up by Charon's face and says, _“Lick._ ”

 

“ _Stop,_ ” Max says, but he isn't holding Charon's contract, and Charon slowly runs his tongue over the top of Eulogy's boot, then again.

 

Max gets closer. “I said stop! Enough!”

 

“Are you sure?” Eulogy asks, resting his chin in a hand and smiling. “I don't mind. Really, my shoes need a good polishing anyway.”

 

“It's enough. I'll take him. Give him to me!”

 

Eulogy hums, thoughtful. “Well don't get ahead of yourself now...we haven't even discussed the topic of pricing.”

 

“Fine, let’s _talk_. How much do you want?”

 

Eulogy settles his hand in Charon's hair, guiding him towards his other shoe, and Charon lets out a grunt of displeasure as he continues.

 

“Huh. I hadn't thought about _exactly_ how much, really, but...no less than, let's say...four thousand.”

 

Charon's heart drops, and it's all he can do not to slump. Four _thousand_ caps. It's one of the highest prices he's sold for, or even been _offered_ for, in his whole life. Max doesn't move to hand over any caps, and surely he doesn't have enough. He _might_ have brought two thousand, thinking it would be the same as with Ahzrukhal, but not that many. And as much as he'd tried not to hope, Charon is still crushed; he had been so close to getting away from here, going _back_ , and now…

 

“Deal.”   

 

His eyes go wide, and he tilts his head just enough to watch Max reach into his pack, dropping bag after bag of caps onto the table beside Eulogy’s chair and then finishing it off with a lunchbox full of them. It cracks open with the amount of force Max uses to place it down with, spilling caps out onto the floor, and Eulogy looks genuinely startled.

 

“Keep the difference. Don't care about it. Give me the contract. I've got a lot of work to do.”

 

“Well now! Straight down to business! I love it! Alright, dog, enough. Get back.”

 

Charon reels back, disgusted, wiping his tongue on his shirt, and Eulogy snaps his fingers and calls for one of his girls, ordering her to start counting out the caps as he stands and makes his way over to his safe in the corner.

 

“I'm sure you ain't tryin’ to short me, because that sure looks like enough, but if it ain't, it'll still pay for a good ol’ bounty hunter to bring your head back to me.”

 

“I was with Mercy for a while,” he says. “I don't betray business partners.”

 

“Isn't that interesting? You worked with her? Shame she's gone. Had a little incident. But don't worry, the one responsible was made _very_ sorry.”

 

Charon grimaces. He's still not _sorry_ he killed her...he just wishes he'd planned it better. He raises his head, staring at Max, utterly confused. How? _How?_ And why? Max only meets his eyes for a second before quickly looking away again, and then Eulogy calls, “Get up, dog.”    

 

Charon hesitates. “...Up, Master?”

 

“Yeah. Opposite of down on the floor, you know? Up?”

 

 _Stand._ He's being told to stand. But it’s been... _weeks,_ at the very least, and he isn't sure he _can_. Still, as the order tugs at him, he grabs onto Eulogy’s chair, starts to pull himself up—

 

“Don't get your filth on my chair, ghoul! You know better!” Eulogy says, and slaps something against the table in the corner, and—

 

It sounds like that whip against his body.  

 

_Again and again and again and—_

 

He recoils immediately like he's been burned, sinking back down to his hands and knees and starting to breathe even harder. He can't handle that again. He _can't._ He’ll die. _Please._ He just wants to go home. He just wants _Max._ “F-forgive me, Master—”

 

Returning to them, Eulogy snaps, “Get _up!_ ”

 

“Just give me the fuckin’ contract!” Max spits, reaching out as if to grab it, and Eulogy snatches it away, goes to Charon's side as he continues to struggle and yanks his hair, and then the rope, _hard,_ choking him.

 

“Ach— _Ma—ster—_ ”

 

“Why can't he stand up, huh?” Max demands, taking a step back as Charon reaches up to claw at his collar. “You sellin’ b-broken merchandise?” The stutter is surprising, as is this sudden concern, as if hadn't just punched Charon across the plaza himself.

 

“He's so _dramatic_ ,” Eulogy says, continuing to pull, and then finally lets out a sound of exasperation and shoves his knee into Charon's back, letting him crumple back to the floor with a cry.

 

“Fine. Stay there, _rotter_.” Then he looks up at Max, clicking his tongue, and says, “We’ve got another thing to discuss. Soon as this contract was mine, he blew the head off his last employer. I ain't stupid enough to think he's all that fond of me. I beat the holy hell out of him the first day I had him. Which you can't do unless he fails his little rules, so be careful with that. I'm sure he can explain. So _you_ are going to make sure that doesn't happen to _me_. Don't try to pull any shit on me, kid. You'll never leave here alive. And I promise you they will _not_ kill you quickly.”  

 

Max stiffens and swallows hard, and glances at Charon again. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he finally says, holding his hand out, and Eulogy smiles.

 

“Good,” he replies, and places the envelope into Max’s grasp. “He comes with his own shotgun, too, at no extra fee! Had to lock it away on account of that little problem, but I'll go ahead and get it for you."

 

"Yeah, and how about _shoes?"_ Max snaps, tucking the contract away, close to his chest. "Armor? Anything? Fuckin' useless-ass slave if he dies the second we get outta here." 

 

"Does he look like he'd fit in any armor I had just layin' around? He barely fits in those clothes. I ain't got shit for him. But I could keep the shotgun, if you don't want it..."

 

"No. I do."

 

"Good! 'Scuse me, then..."

 

Max watches him meander his way on up the stairs, and then drops to one knee beside Charon, grabbing at him and wrapping an arm around his back. “Charon,” he whispers, frantically, “Charon—?”

 

Charon moans and recoils, and it's less from the pain, more from Max’s _hands._ They're real, they're really _touching_ him—they drag down his bare arms, so familiar and yet so _foreign,_ and send shivers through him that wrack his whole body. Max. _Max. Max._ Can this...really be happening? He's done _nothing_ to deserve this, _nothing._

 

Max touches the back of his neck, gently, and cups his hand there, like he used to when they _kissed—_ and then suddenly sucks in a breath and takes a fistful of his shirt.

 

“Get the fuck up! Now!”

 

Eulogy snickers from the stairs, returning to Max’s side just as Charon finally, finally manages to force himself to his feet, still half bent over and wheezing from the exertion.

 

“Good dog," Eulogy purrs, and slings the shotgun over Charon's shoulder, deliberately smacks it against his back and nearly drops him to the floor again. "Knew you could do it."

 

Charon growls, grabbing Eulogy's wrist and squeezing with _every_ intent to break it first and then the _rest_ of him, and then Max shouts, “Don't touch him! Don't hurt him! Off! Get back!”

 

Releasing the man, Charon shrinks, ducks his head and tries to concentrate only on keeping his balance. He only finds afterwards that he’s raised his hands defensively again when Max orders him to put them down.

 

“It's been a pleasure,” Eulogy hums, petting Charon's head again, and Charon stumbles forward, over to Max's side and _away_. “Anything else, or will you be on your way?”

 

Charon, vaguely, hopes Max will give him permission to kill like with Ahzrukhal, even if he doesn't have the strength to take the rest of the slavers out. There are innocent people here. There are _children_ here. He wants to free them. He's put them there before, so now he has to do this. He _has_ to. He has to…

 

He sways, overcome with sudden dizziness, and staggers as his knees threaten to give out. Max grabs his arm with both hands, digs his nails into it enough to bring him back.

 

“No,” Max says. “That's it for now. Have a...good...mm. Business. Whatever. Let’s go, _ghoul._ ”

 

Exhausted, Charon says, “Yes, Master.”

 

It slips out entirely by accident, but it immediately freezes both of them. Charon blinks hard and wearily watches Max for a reaction, any at all—and then Max simply breathes in through his nose, shakily, and says, “G-good. Move.”

 

Charon doesn't know _how_ , but he does manage to keep on his feet, taking little steps forward as his body remains stiff and unbearably sore.

 

“Bye bye, pet,” Eulogy calls, and it's all Charon can do to ignore it.

 

“What are you doing up, mutt?” one of the slavers taunts the very second they step outside, and Max glares and grabs Charon's shirt again, then takes the rope between shaking fingers.

 

Charon automatically lowers himself a little more; he still doesn't know how long it’s been, but he's already pitifully accustomed to being tugged around like this. Yet Max doesn't pull; he just holds it, displaying his ownership, and it successfully quiets most of them down.

 

“Miss you already, pup!” another coos, and Charon keeps his head down, gritting his teeth. He doesn't have armor, he's not sure he even has _ammo,_ and he definitely doesn't have the strength to kill them. Not yet.

 

Still, guiltily, he says, “We must—”

 

“Shut up until we get out of here,” Max hisses, and Charon obeys, stumbling along after him until finally, finally they are outside and _away._ Max releases his rope, and Charon sags against the fence, gripping it tightly to stay on his feet.

 

“M...Max,” he manages, and it feels so _strange_ on his tongue. “Max. M...Max?”

 

Max doesn't even _look_ at him. He snatches something out of his bag—a Med-X, Charon realizes—and sticks it into his arm, breathing harshly.

 

“You are injured,” Charon says, reaching out, and Max shoves his hand away, gives him a glare so sharp that it makes him recoil.

 

“I'm _fine,_ no thanks to…” Max trails off, his muscles relaxing, and then he lets out a long relieved sigh.

 

Charon hesitates. He wants to touch, more than anything, but he's afraid, because Max had _struck_ him, and his mouth still tastes like blood. Instead he stays still and again mumbles, “Max…”

 

Max finally looks up again, gives him a little dopey smile, and says, “Charon. Hi.”

 

To see him smiling at _all_ again is nearly too much. Charon trembles, feels his eyes stinging, and fights to keep himself under control. “Max. You...I thought…” He starts to reach out again, and then stops himself at the last second. “ _Max…_ ”

 

“We should talk later,” Max says, “because I really don't wanna talk right now. I just wanna go home now.”

 

“The slaves,” Charon starts, although he isn't sure _why,_ and Max looks him over.

 

“I already saved one,” he says. “I think that’s enough for today, don't you?”

 

Charon's breath hitches. That _really_ startles him; Max has _never_ called him a slave before. Not to his face. Not with such...disdain in his eyes. Uncertain, he mutters, “I am not…”

 

Max scoffs, brings out his knife, and approaches him. Charon instinctively stiffens, straightens up; Max seems a little less tiny now, and possibly a lot more threatening. He grabs the rope still around Charon's neck and yanks him down to eye-level, and Charon doesn't even dare to breathe.

 

“You're wearing a leash,” he says, slipping his fingers between the rope and his neck, and Charon flinches.

 

“You're a slave.” He slices the collar, lets it fall to Charon's feet. Charon sucks in a deep breath and reaches up to rub at his bruised neck, and Max watches him for a second before turning.

 

“We’re going home now.”

 

And Charon follows without protesting either statement.

 

**x**

 

“I must…”

 

Max stops, rolls his eyes, and turns as he hears Charon's plea to stop for the fifth time in not even an _hour._

 

“We have to get somewhere safe before you can sleep!” Max says, backtracking until he's at Charon's side again. “You can't do this or we’ll never get anywhere!”

 

Charon braces his hands on his knees, panting. He can't keep up. He just _can't._ His legs hurt so goddamn much...he's so _tired_ …

 

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Max asks, forehead creased with unexpected concern, and he touches Charon's back in what is maybe an attempt to comfort him.

 

Charon _whimpers_ , and his knees buckle, sending him to the ground. Max draws back, his voice suddenly soft as he again asks, "Charon, God, what's wrong?"

  
  
Charon shakes his head, starts struggling to get back up, and Max touches the back of his head. It’s so... _wonderful,_ just the sensation, comforting instead of frightening, a gesture of fondness instead of a warning to act as he's supposed to, and he leans back against it. Max...touching him again...Max _beside_ him again. God...

 

"I'm...I'm sorry, I just...what hurts? You're...Jesus, what happened?"

  
  
The bottom of Charon's shirt is riding up, revealing part of a deep gash on his back, and when Max reaches out, Charon jerks away and puts a hand up.

  
  
"I am healing," he finally croaks, and moves away. "Please...do not. I am okay. I do not need anything."

 

Max kneels down, biting his lip. “He said...he said he beat you.”

 

Charon breathes out, leaning down on his side. "Forgive me. I just need a moment."

 

"Is that what you're healing from? How...is it...is it bad?” Max asks, softly, and Charon heaves out another even harder breath and doesn't respond; surely it's obvious enough that he doesn't  _need_ to.

  
  
Max sighs, wringing his hands in his lap. "What did he do? No, no, I don't think I can know, it’s too much. I'm...so sorry. I didn't...I shoulda come before, I..."

  
  
"You should _never_ have come back for me," Charon says, closing his eyes. "You...they could have recognized you. They could have captured you again. They could have..."

 

"You didn't want to see me again?"

  
  
Charon looks up at him, eyes only half-lidded. "I...I saw you _die_ , Max," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "I did not think I ever would.” He trembles a bit, keeping his hand pressed to his chest to prevent himself from reaching out.

 

“Max,” he murmurs, still not quite believing it. “You died. You were _dead_.”

 

Max rubs absentmindedly at his chest, grimacing. "Almost," he murmurs, taking a seat beside him. "A lot happened. A lot. I...I..." He scoots closer, and then even closer, leans to nuzzle his face against Charon's neck and frowns when Charon jerks away.

  
  
"Didn't you miss me?" Max asks, gently grasping Charon's hair, and Charon gasps in a breath and cringes in obvious expectation of it being yanked on. When Max doesn't, when he just pets it so _gently_ , Charon exhales and slowly, slowly tilts his head up into the touch. Oh, _God..._ he'd missed that feeling so much his eyes are already watering, or maybe they haven't been dry since that awful, awful day, and he feels another shudder go through him as he tries to hold back tears.

 

“ _Max_ …”

  
  
"Didn't you?" Max asks again, a little more desperately, and Charon nods once, then again.

 

"Please tell me," Max says, moving even closer, and Charon shifts towards his warmth, though still avoids direct contact.

 

"Please tell me you missed me. You didn't want me to die, did you? You missed me. You missed me, Charon, right? You have to tell me. Tell me."

 

"Yes," Charon manages to say. "I missed you, Max. Oh, _Max_...I—”

 

Max grips his hair a little harder, still not tugging, but Charon tenses anyways, his breaths becoming shallower as he goes otherwise quiet.

 

"Then...then why were you gonna kill me?” Max asks, and Charon feels himself go rigid at the reminder.

 

“I just...I just wanna know, okay? It's...I'm not mad. Not right now. I was mad before. I'll probably be mad again. But I'm not mad right now. Med-X...makes me calm. So...just tell me, okay? Please? Tell me. Tell me why."

 

Charon's fingers curl into the dirt under him, and he sounds awfully unsteady as he responds. "They would have hurt you, Max. They would have brought you there, and hurt you in ways you cannot imagine. There was no other option, if you did not go."

 

"So...you...you could have done it?" Max asks, tearful. "You would have?"

 

Charon looks up at him. "I would never have let you go back to them," he says, voice low. "Never."

 

Max releases him, careful not to touch any other part of him, and sits there, staring at the ground.

 

"How...how am I supposed to feel about that?" he finally questions, frowning. "Do you...do you want me to say thank you?"

 

Charon closes his eyes. "No."

 

"Are you sure? You sound like you think you'd've been doing me a favor!"

 

"I would have been," Charon says, and Max scoffs, thinks for a minute, and then grabs Charon's wrist.

 

"We need to go now," he says, tugging on him and then standing up. "Let's go."

 

Charon rubs at his head, and nods, and hauls himself to his feet. When Max starts off, too quickly, Charon calls out for him to slow down.

 

"I cannot keep up at this pace," he says when he finally catches up, and Max sets his jaw.

 

"Walk faster, then," he says, _orders_ , and turns on his heel.

 

**x**

 

They come across an old power plant after another hour or so, and Max doesn't even get the door to the substation open before Charon is crumpling to the ground, wheezing. He shrugs off his shotgun, clumsily fumbles for it, and says, “I must…”

 

“Yeah, I feel _really_ safe,” Max scoffs, grabbing his shotgun and tossing it inside. “It’s empty. One room. I stayed here last night.”

 

“Forgive...me,” Charon says, grabbing onto the doorway to try and haul himself back to his feet, and then, when that fails, simply crawls his way inside and slumps in the corner. “Oh…” he groans, sprawling out on his stomach and resting his head on his arm, trying to catch his breath.

 

Max grumbles something under his breath, sticking himself with another half-dose of Med-X, and then turns to Charon, noticing his attention is entirely trained on him. “What are you fuckin’...” He reaches out to the wall for support, and then rubs at his eyes. “I'm...Charon...God, you _stupid_ fuckin’...I _missed_ you.”

 

Charon frowns, slowly looking him over. “You are...you are not injured.”  

 

Max sits down on the mattress a few feet away, and sighs happily. “Yes I am.”

 

“Max…”

 

“What?”

 

“You—”

 

“I don't care,” Max interrupts, waving dismissively. “I don't. So just…you wanted to rest. You can rest now. I'm sleepy. I told you I don't wanna talk now. There should be some food in that box over there, and...and water. Yeah? You’re...look hungry.”  

 

Charon forgets his concern the second he's given the option of eating, and he drags himself forward, knocking the box over in his haste to grab at the supplies inside. He, carefully, just barely managing to retain control of himself, sets aside half of it for Max with shaking fingers, and then tears desperately into the rest, shovels most of it down dry and only pauses to drink when he has no choice.

 

Max watches him for a minute, expressionless, and then finally turns his back to Charon, pulling a blanket over himself and not moving again.

 

When Charon is done, he has to take a few minutes to recover, to _breathe_ , because he isn't sure he did that entire time. God, he hadn't been that hungry since the Outcasts, and that is _not_ something he wants to think about. He doesn't want to think about _anything._ He feels better, he's _away_ from Eulogy, and he needs to focus on that. He needs...he needs to _sleep,_ because he's about to pass out, and he can't protect anyone, not even himself, in this state.  

 

He shivers, wrapping his arms around himself, and then gazes longingly over at Max. _Max._ He wants Max, even if Max doesn't seem to want him. That's what he really needs, _who_ he really needs.

 

Grunting with the effort, Charon finally manages to pull himself over to the mattress, relieved it isn't a very big room. He isn't sure he would have the energy to cross much further, but this...this is important. This is suddenly the only thing that matters. Carefully, he lays beside Max, curls up to his back, and tries to reach for his hand. He missed Max so fucking _much,_ he needs to hold him, he needs to be _held—_

 

Max jerks when Charon's arm comes around him. "No!" he says, shoving at him. "Go away! I didn't say you could lay here!"

  
  
Charon tries not to let it show how absolutely _devastated_ he is as he scrambles back and presses against the wall, wary, one hand out as if to try and diffuse Max's anger. Max had still hit him, and hit him _hard;_ Charon doesn't know how to feel about it, or about being pushed away from the one thing he needs more than anything. He feels…

 

Sad. He’s _sad._

 

Max bites his lip and lowers his voice, propping himself up. "I-I'm sorry…please, I...I didn't mean to be so loud. Please...please don't look at me like that...I'm sorry.”

 

He doesn't know how he's looking at Max, so Charon simply lowers his head and stops looking entirely. “As you wish…” he murmurs, wincing, and Max sighs, long and drawn out, as he sinks back down onto his side.

 

“I just...don't like you right now, you know? I told you. I told you. I'm sorry. Just wanna sleep. There's...you can have the blanket in my bag. Okay? Just…”

 

Charon repeats himself, much quieter, and stays where he is, eyes on the ground, as Max mumbles under his breath and then pulls the blanket up over his head.

 

Max doesn’t want to be near him. Max doesn't even want to hold his _hand_ anymore.

 

He lifts his hand up, his disgusting, dirty hand that had held a gun to Max's head and nearly pulled the trigger, and he knows the only one to blame is himself.

 

He's so _cold._ He pulls the blanket out of Max's bag, wraps it tightly around himself, and then retreats back to the corner, curling onto his side. He deserves it. He deserves all of this. He deserves to never have Max touch him again. He had let this happen. If he hadn't _failed_ in the first place, let his contract be taken away, then none of this would have happened at all. Max would never have been hurt, they could have been back at Megaton this whole time, together, he could have been helping Max recover from his loss, but no; he'd ruined it. He'd ruined  _everything._ Whatever is wrong with Max, it’s _Charon’s fault_ , and he should have been left to rot like he was always meant to.

 

With a long, exhausted sigh, he pushes his face against his arm and closes his eyes.

 

**x**

 

Max wakes up sometime later, gives it a few hours, and then attempts to wake Charon up, a hand shaking his shoulder. He's only got one and a half doses of Med-X left. He needs to find more, or he's going to end up lashing out at Charon _again,_ which is rude, even if he deserves it. He hates Charon. He loves him. No, no, he _hates_ him.

 

“We need to go,” he says, and Charon remains so deathly still and quiet that Max feels his heart skip, and he has to push two fingers up under Charon's chin to find his pulse before taking another deep breath of relief. “Charon?”  

 

Still nothing. Max knows he would be foolish to try any harder. If Charon was that tired, there's no way he would be able to continue without fully resting. His legs had so obviously needed a break...he wonders if Charon had really been forced to crawl around the entire time he was there. How  _humiliating;_ barely clothed like this, treated like an  _animal..._ he should have nuked the place as soon as they were away. Maybe someday, but...not now. Now he just needs to get them home.

 

How long had it been? Less than a month, right? Well, surely no longer. If he already misses home, he can't imagine how much Charon wants to return.

 

Charon shifts, rolls onto his stomach with a quiet sigh, and, as he looks down at him, Max’s heart suddenly aches. He takes Charon's hand, gently, and clasps their fingers together. It doesn't feel quite right anymore, but it doesn't feel wrong. He doesn't know _what_ it feels like. He'd missed Charon, hadn't he? It's probably the drugs, right? It’s such a blur after arriving back at Megaton, and really he doesn't remember much of that trip, either. He remembers hitting Gob, but fucking Gob had _destroyed_ his only escape, and Max had wanted to do a lot worse.

 

And _Charon._ Max wanted to do a lot worse than just hit him, too. For what he'd done, he should have been _left_ there, but...Max must still love him, somewhere, because he feels sick even thinking about it. Or maybe that's the beginnings of withdrawal. He seems to get it faster every time.

 

He grabs for the last half of the Med-X, and then looks back at Charon as he lets out a noise of discomfort and moves one of his legs, grimacing.

 

One and a half would probably be enough to help the pain, at least a little bit.

 

But _Max_ needs it. Charon will suffer either way, but Max can feel _all_ better with it. He can have time to find more, as long as they leave soon.

 

He grits his teeth, and tries not to think about it as he dispenses it into his own arm, tossing it to the corner before laying down beside Charon. God, he just... _loves_ Charon. He loves him, and he _hates_ him, and he's so... _tired._ He gently runs his fingers along Charon's cheek, then tucks himself up against Charon's side and breathes deeply; he doesn't smell like he used to, and he's _filthy_ , but his hair is just as soft under Max's fingers, familiar, and he pets it gently, his eyes sliding closed.

 

When he wakes up again, he's facing the other direction, and his _neck_ hurts, and he really shouldn't have decided to sleep on the floor, and…

 

And Charon is pressed up against his back, slow breaths tickling across Max's ear, an arm draped limply over him.

 

Max stays still for a second, remembers all the mornings he'd woken up like this, so comfortable, and yet doesn't feel like that now. Anxiety floods through him, and he feels his heart start to pound. He doesn't want to be held, he _doesn't want_ to be this _close,_ he doesn't want the reminder of that fucker’s arm around his waist, of how he'd almost—how he'd been going to—

 

“Stop,” he says, and when nothing changes he squirms, grabbing Charon's arm and pushing it away. “Stop! I told you! _Charon!"_

 

Charon's whole body jerks, and he immediately recoils, protectively curling all of his limbs into himself, muttering what might be apologies.

 

Max scrambles up and to his feet, scowling, and then finally Charon looks up, dazed.

 

“Max…?”

 

“I want to go home now!” Max says, and Charon glances around, relaxing as he takes in the lack of danger. His eyelids droop again, and he doesn't move to get up, or at _all_ , and Max sighs impatiently.

 

“ _Now,_ please!”

 

“Why did you shout?” Charon asks, slowly. “Are you hurt?”

 

“Yeah,” Max says, starting to shove his things back in his bag, yanking the blanket off of Charon before he has any time to react and then dropping everything. “What the fuck _happened?”_

 

Charon winces and tugs his shirt down, laying a hand over his belly where it had ridden up in his sleep. “It...it is irrelevant, I—”

 

“What are those from?” Max demands, and it sends a stab of pain through his head so sharp he reaches up to grab at it, hissing in a breath through his teeth.

 

“A whip,” he says, quietly, and the ache dulls. He shifts, uncomfortable, and sits up, adding, “I am healing.”

 

“ _Charon,_ ” Max breathes, and kneels down beside him, reaching for his shirt. “Let me—”

 

“No!” Charon gasps, shrinking away. “ _Please._ ”

 

Max stops, drawing his hand back. “No. Oh, no. Charon...that's...that's what he beat you with? A...a fucking whip? Fuckin’ hell, Charon… _why?_ "

 

“I killed her,” Charon says, although he finds it almost _amusing_ to pretend employers have ever needed a legitimate excuse to hurt him.

 

"M...Mercy."

 

"Yes. I killed her too close to my employer. I was not careful. I was foolish. It ricocheted. I injured him, and I was punished, as is required.”

 

“Is that…” Max swallows hard, sickened. “Is that why your back hurts? That's...why you don't want me to see? He did it there, too, didn't he?”

 

“I will heal,” is all Charon says, and then slowly gets to his feet. His legs still hurt, his joints popping too loudly as he stands, but he thinks it might be a little better. It hardly matters, either way.

 

“There's...the river,” Max finally says, going back to packing. “We’re gonna pass it. And...and you can get in it until you're all better, okay? It...it doesn't matter how long it takes, I'll...I'll wait for that."

 

Charon looks over at him, tiredly, and then finally nods. “Thank you.”

 

Max is quiet as he finishes. The river...next to Elodie. Would she have more of what she'd given him? Could he _get_ more?

 

His limbs tingle at the thought, and he pulls his bag on, suddenly energetic. He can get more. She has to have more, right? She can at least tell him what it _was,_ and where he can get his own. She has to. She  _will._

 

He turns, looks at Charon as Charon leans up against the wall, and meets his eyes.

 

“I missed you,” Max says, quietly, and comes a little closer, trying to ignore how Charon visibly tenses. “I did. I...I really did. I wouldn't've come got you if I didn't. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Charon says, because he doesn't know how else to reply, and watches with a blank expression as Max approaches him and reaches up to touch his cheek.

 

Charon doesn't flinch this time, immediately leaning into his hand and closing his eyes, and then reaching up to hold Max's hand there. “ _Max,_ ” he breathes, both looking and sounding so terribly overwhelmed, and Max feels the smallest of smiles tugging at his mouth.  

 

“Yeah,” he says. He wants Charon to always look at him like that, with so much adoration that he can't hide it. It makes him feel like he made the right choice, doing this. He stays there for a minute and then gently pulls away, opens the door, and gestures Charon out.

 

**x**

 

It's a few days before they come to the bridge again, and immediately after seeing it in the distance, Charon starts to protest.

 

“No,” he says, and then, a little louder, “Max? Max, wait, I do not wish to go this way. We can find another—”

 

“It's okay,” Max says, falling back to walk beside him and taking his hand. He's high again, and therefore in good spirits, but Charon will take what he can get at this point, desperate for any comfort. He squeezes Max's hand and brings it up to his cheek, and Max hums, eyes half-lidded as he continues.

 

“I didn't die, so it's okay. Don't worry...this is where she lives! My friend! She's real nice. Didn't I tell you? I think I did. I don't remember. But she's nice. I like her.”

 

Charon nods, reluctantly releasing Max's hand when Max tugs it. He wants to have his hair stroked...wants to touch _Max's_ hair, even with so little of it left...but he doesn't dare even ask with how violently Max has been rejecting his attempts at affection. This is the most contact he's allowed since the power plant. And Charon understands, of course. He's just never been this _needy,_ and it's pathetic, selfish. Max doesn't want his touch, and that's okay. Or, it _should_ be. He’ll get it when he deserves it, and he certainly doesn't yet.

 

He starts to slow as they approach the shack, fraught with memories of being on his knees, watching Max's lifeless body being dumped over into the surging river with Mercy’s hands holding him down. He doesn't want to be here. He wants to go _anywhere_ else.

 

“Come on,” Max says, and the order pulls him forward until he's standing on the porch, holding onto the post supporting the awning. He won't go inside. He just _won't._ Not in there, where Max had been injured so terribly and where Mercy had _touched_ him and where something had happened, something with that blow to his head that's been making it hurt ever since. At some point at the Falls, thankfully at night when nothing was needed of him, everything had faded to white noise and painful, loud static, for almost half a minute; he'd been entirely convinced he was dying. It was only once, but it _has_ to be because of that, because he'd never experienced that before. Maybe...it was a concussion, though. After his prior injury, another would take even longer to heal from, right?

 

Max knocks on the door, humming. “I'm back! It's me! It's Max! I got him, I got Charon! He's here! Are you there?”

 

He frowns, wondering for a moment if maybe she isn't home, his shoulders slumping, and then hums in delight when the door unlocks and opens.

 

“The hell, kid?” Elodie says, an eyebrow quirked. “That was fast. Damn. Where—”

 

Charon suddenly lets out a sound Max has _never_ heard before, and Max whirls around to find Charon has gone rigid, staring at her in the utmost horror before stumbling back.

 

“ _No—_ ”

 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Max says, and then turns to Elodie, who's glaring back at Charon with a glint in her eyes Max doesn't quite understand. It looks like _anger._ Why would she be angry? Maybe she didn't like ghouls...he'd never mentioned it...he probably should of. He knows better...but she hadn't seemed like the person who would care!

 

“You,” she says, taking a step forward, and Charon sucks in a breath and recoils so violently that he falls right off the porch and onto the ground.

 

“What's your fucking _problem?_ ” Max hisses, trying to offer Charon a hand, only Charon just flinches away like he expects to be hit and scrambles back, continuing to stare up at her with wide, frightened eyes.

 

“Stop it! This is my _friend,_ El—”

 

“Oh, he knows who the fuck I am,” she interrupts, and Charon flinches again.

 

Suddenly dreadful, Max looks back at her. Charon looks so _scared_...who had Max become friends with? An old employer? Someone who had hurt him? Oh, what had he done, bringing them back here? All for the hopes of getting more drugs? “...What? How?”

 

“Because,” she says, laying her hand on her pistol.

 

“He's the one who killed my family.”

 

**x**

 

It's not possible. It's been half a goddamn century, and _no one_ lives that long out here, not alone, not unless they're ghouls. But she _is_ alone, and she's not a ghoul. No, she's human, she's _alive,_ and nausea nearly completely overwhelms Charon as he stares up at her, as his brain screams at him to _get away_ and his limbs refuse to respond.

 

He doesn't know why he always assumed she died. Probably because it was _easier,_ or because there was just no chance a child could survive alone out here, especially after what they, what _he,_ had done to her, how helpless she had been left.

 

“ _Him?_ ” Max asks, worriedly, and Charon swallows hard, putting his hand out and trying to move back further as she comes closer.

 

“I-I am—no—”  

 

The barrel of her gun is suddenly cold against his forehead, and he isn't surprised. He stops moving, resigns, and squeezes his eyes shut. It's less than he deserves, but maybe it will be quick.

 

“Do you think I want to hear you’re _sorry?_ ” she laughs. “Is that what you were going to say? Huh?”

 

“Please,” Max says, holding his hands out towards her. “Wait! You can't kill him!”

 

“Oh yes I fucking _can,_ ” she says, cocking the pistol, and Max clumsily shoves Charon down, getting in front of him.

 

“No, you can't! I can't let you!"

 

She pulls her gun back, scoffing. “You don't know who you're trying to protect, kid. You don't. Do you know _anything_ about what that bastard’s done? Huh? Do you?”

 

“Yes! But he has—”

 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” she interrupts. “You told me you _loved_ him, didn't you? _Jesus._ Is he even younger than I was, _Charon?_ ”

 

Hearing her say his name makes this far, far too real, and he curls into himself and shakes his head, covering his face. She snarls, grabbing Max's arm and easily yanking him out of the way, pinning Charon down with a knee shoved into his chest and putting her gun to his head again.

 

“Fucking look at me!” she shouts, and Charon _can't._ He _can't,_ and she grabs his throat, shoving the gun into his mouth. “You sick fuck! You killed them! You—oh, no, are you fucking _crying?_ You piece of shit! Are you _seriously_ —”

 

“Stop!” Max says, and she looks up, eyes wild with rage that turns to confusion as she sees him aiming Charon's shotgun at her, shaking but more than steady enough to take a shot.

 

“Kid—”

 

“Let him go!”

 

She scowls and yanks her gun back, standing up as Charon gasps and coughs and rolls onto his side, retching.

 

“Kid,” she says again, much sweeter. “If you think I'm scared to die, you're _wrong_.”

 

“I'll...I'll shoot, and…it'll hurt!” Max says, trembling, and she smirks, looks around and then back at Max, tears watering her eyes.

 

“It can't hurt more than what he did. You just don't get it. You couldn't _possibly_ fuckin’ get it. This thing? This fucker doesn't deserve to live. You wanna know what he did? Hm? You think he's worth more than a bullet in the head? Fine. Let's _discuss,_ shall we?”

 

She leans down, grabbing Charon's ankle, and drags him closer. “Why don't _you_ tell him?”

 

Charon shakes his head, starts to pull away, and then gasps when she grabs his hair and yanks him upright, forcing his head back.

 

“Don't be fuckin’ _shy,_ now. What are you,  _ashamed?_ Embarrassed? Don't want him to know? Afraid he’ll drag your rotten ass back to the Falls? Hell, didn't you make trips there back then? To sell off all the little girls and boys you came across? I'm sure they loved having their best worker back.”

 

“I can explain that,” Max tries, and she looks up at him, incredulous.

 

“ _You?_ _You_ can explain what _he's_ done? What, like it can be excused? Forgiven? Maybe you'll change your mind once he _fucking tells you!_ ” She kicks her knee into his back, and Charon _whimpers,_ gasping for air as she yanks on his hair even harder.

 

“Say it! Now! What did you do?”

 

“I-I killed them,” he whispers, and she drives her foot into the back of his leg.

 

“Tell _him._ Not me. I know what you did. Look at him!”  

 

Charon grimaces, and slowly does so. “I killed them.”

 

“No," she says. "That's not good enough. You didn't _just_ kill them. What was my brother’s name?”

 

“Jack,” Charon says, looking away from either of them.

 

“Yeah. I knew you'd remember. I fuckin' knew it. And how old was Jack when you tortured him until his heart gave out?”

 

Charon chokes, softly, and says, “Ten.”

 

“Yeah.  _Ten._ ” She grits her teeth, tears running down her cheeks again, and pulls his head back further. He wishes she would just take a knife and run it right across his neck.

 

“How about my mother? My father? You remember their names?”

 

“Elena...Henry.”

 

“And what the fuck did you do to them, huh? Did you _just_ torture them? Just kill them? No. You made them watch. You made _Jack_ watch. _Everybody fucking watched._ ” She feels a shudder go through him, and she _laughs._

 

“Are you _shaking?_ What the fuck is wrong with you? Can't face what you did? No. You don't get to do that. You fuckin’ _look_ at him and you tell him. Now!”

 

Charon squeezes his eyes shut, and she cups her hand against his throat and presses down. “Tell him. _T_ _ell him_ or I'll fuckin’ kill you right now. I'll break your fucking neck.”

 

“You won't!” Max says, stepping closer. “St-stop! I know what he's done! It wasn't his fault!”

 

She stops, snickering, and then wipes her eyes with her free hand. “So it's my fault?” she asks. “Is that what you're saying? Because that's what they said, too. The fuckers he was with. Because I fought. I fought so fucking _hard_ for them. And so they wanted to see me _break_ , and _cry,_ and they had _Charon_ here do the fucking honors.” She presses down harder, baring her teeth, and Charon starts to gag. “You're not fighting back. Why? Put your hands on me enough back then? God, you know, I should cut them off. _Then_ I'll kill you, nice and slow. Rip off every goddamn _piece_ of you, and you know where I'm gonna start? I bet you do. Oh, I've _dreamt_ about this day.”

 

Charon shudders again, finally trying to move, and she pulls him back, pushes down harder until his wheezing cuts off. “No, no. You feel that ache in your chest? That's _nothing_ compared to what I've felt every fucking _day,_ all because of you. It's not my fault. It's not. I know it's not. It's _yours._ And I'm gonna—”

 

“It's not!” Max says, and he's finally pulled out the envelope from his armor, trying to balance the gun in his other hand. “It's not his, either! It's this! Please, _please_ let me explain!”

 

"How the hell are _you_ gonna—”

 

Charon reaches up, grabs her arm, and twists it, and she shoves him forward and stands up, hissing in pain. “Fucker!”

 

Gasping, Charon pulls himself over beside Max, and weakly reaches up for his contract. “ _Do not—_ ”

 

“It's this!” Max says, easily pushing Charon's hand away, and he slumps at Max's feet, trying to catch his breath.  

 

“And what is that, huh?”

 

“I told you,” Max says, quietly. “It's his contract.”

 

“His contract,” she echoes, forehead creasing.

 

“I told you about it! I told you! Remember? It makes him! They brainwashed him!”

 

“Who's _they?_ ”

 

“I don't know! But it makes him do bad things when he doesn't want to! Whatever the person holding it tells him to!”

 

“A contract,” she says again, and scowls. “Let me see it.”  

 

“ _No_ ,” Charon says, grabbing Max’s ankle, and Max shakes his head.

 

“No, you...you can't touch it.”

 

“I want to read it. _Give_ it to me.”

 

“You _can't._ You just have to—Charon. Charon, tell—say what you have to when someone takes it! Say it!”

 

"You—are my employer,” Charon finally chokes out, voice trembling. He's covering his eyes again, like he's pretending this isn't happening, and Max's heart aches for _both_ of them.

 

“You hold my contract. As long as it is so, for good or ill, I serve you. I—”

 

“You do what I say, don't you?”

 

“I must follow your commands."

 

“Fuckin’ _bullshit_ ,” Elodie snarls, clenching her fists. “That's bullshit. That can't—”

 

“Charon,” Max says. “Look at her. In the eyes.”

 

No. No, not that, _please._ Charon groans softly, but he can't bear the pain for very long, however much he wants to struggle. He grabs at his head, and moans again, and then finally has to turn, looking up at her with his watery eyes, cringing in expectation of another attack. No, God, he doesn't want to meet those eyes, to remember how much _fear_ and _pain_ he'd seen in them before—

 

She clenches her fists, and he recoils slightly, but he can't look away; it's hardly because of the order.

 

“Did you want to hurt anyone?” Max asks, and Charon braces himself on his hands, sniveling, _pitiful._

 

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “No.”

 

“They made you! Didn't they? They made you do awful things, and they hurt you!”

 

Charon nods, slowly. “Yes.”  

 

“They hurt you?” Elodie asks, and snickers. “ _Good._ That's the best fuckin’ news I've ever heard. How bad, eh? I wish they'd tortured _you_ to death.”

 

“Hey!” Max snaps, and she scoffs.

 

“ _Please_ , kid. That's better than what my family got. Then what _I_ got. Then what he fucking _did._ You never forgot me, did you?”  

 

Charon blinks hard, shaking his head again, and she leans down again, grabbing his shirt and yanking. “ _What?_ ”

 

“No,” Charon says, shakily, and remains limp.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I never forgot about you, either. God, the amount of times I've dreamed about shoving my shotgun down your throat... _Charon._ Hm. He never said your name. He was your... _employer?”_

 

Wincing at the sudden onset of memories of that sadistic, volatile, _evil_ man, just one of so many and yet still somehow not the worst, Charon replies, “Yes.”

 

She looks him over, slowly, scrutinizing. “He told you to do it. Everything. I remember that. And you fell. You were on the ground. You were in pain?”

 

“I tried to resist,” Charon whispers. “I _tried._ ”

 

“Oh, you tried?” She shakes him violently, hard enough to make him dizzy, and shouts, “Not fucking hard enough!”

 

“Stop hurting him!” Max yells, pushing the gun into her side, and he realizes too late that it's a _terrible_ choice. His brain is still addled with Med-X, his reflexes slower than they usually would be, and he can't do anything as she grabs the barrel and twists, yanking it out of his grip and turning it around on him.

 

Max staggers back, startled, and Charon scrambles up, gets in front of Max and puts his hand out.

 

“Not him,” he says, and she aims the gun to his chest.

 

“Nah. I'm not aimin’ for him.”

 

Charon hesitates. Just one shot. Just one. He'd never be able to hurt anyone again.

 

But the contract still tugs him into action, and he reaches out, grabs the barrel and yanks it up, and then slams the end against her, knocking the breath from her and dropping her to her knees. Before she can even cry out, Charon has his gun settled against his shoulder, aimed at her head.

 

“You _fuck,_ ” she spits, holding her torso. “You finally gonna finish the job? Do it. Fuckin’ _do it._ ”

 

Charon breathes out. He can still remember her like this before, beside who he had just taken away, sobbing, begging them to just kill her, too. He remembers hearing those cries long after they'd moved on, long after he'd killed others, and to this goddamn day. Tears prick at his eyes, and he swallows hard. “I tried,” he says again.

 

“You _tried_ ,” she says, shaking her head. “You fucking _tried_. Well you know what? I’ve _tried_ to forget. I've _tried_ not to see your fucking face in every goddamn nightmares. I've _tried_ to sleep for more than an hour for fifty _years._ Guess trying isn't enough, huh?”

 

He takes a step back, breathing hard. Fifty years she's been alive, living with this pain, this pain _Charon caused._ He feels sick, he's going to be sick,  _God—_

 

She stands up, slowly, but doesn't reach for her gun again. Instead she sags against the wall, and scoffs. “You know...the thought of maybe, _maybe_ being granted the gift of killing you, of watching you _die,_ is the _only_ thing that kept me goin' most days. But you...I saw that fuckin’ look you just gave me. I saw. You _want_ to die. You wanted me to shoot. Isn't that right?”

 

Charon remains quiet, doesn't give any reaction, but she still seems to get the answer she wanted. “You do. As if you have any fuckin' right. And you're what, this kid's bodyguard? Sure needs one a hell of a lot more than that other fucker did."

 

“Please don't hurt him,” Max whimpers. “Please. It wasn't him. It wasn't. They were orders. He has to follow orders. He has to or—”

 

“Or his head hurts, I get it,” she says, and looks at Charon. “Was it fucking worth it? _Us_ being in pain so you didn't have to be? Was it a good choice?”

 

Charon takes another step back, and shakes his head. “I tried,” he manages again. “I tried. I _tried._ ”

 

“Yeah. And then you chose to torture and murder a ten-year-old to save yourself from a little headache."

 

This time Charon flinches, and stumbles, and bumps into Max, gasping at the pain in his back and nearly dropping his gun.

 

She watches him, and then comes closer, and instead of raising his weapon again Charon backs up, until he's almost against the wall of her shack, once again avoiding eye-contact, his head lowered.

 

“Ghouls live forever, huh?” she asks. “Anything in that contract keepin’ you from slittin’ your own throat? There has to be. Else you woulda done it already, ain't that right? You look more miserable than you did back then. You pathetic fucking _coward._ So you'll live. You have to. And you'll remember me, long after I'm dead. Fifty years later and you're still _crying_ over it like it was _your_ family. Why?”

 

“I am...haunted,” Charon says, so quietly, and she laughs, humorlessly, and grabs his neck. He jerks violently, even before she digs her nails into his skin hard enough to draw blood.

 

“Good. You know...I still hear their screams. Every day. Do you?”

 

Charon's eyes widen, and he's unable to form a response, and she pushes his head back against the wall, pins him there and forces him to look up at her.

 

“Answer me.”

 

"Yes,” he finally manages.

 

“Do you hear mine?” Her voice cracks, and Charon winces, trying to move away, and she holds him back with more force, tightens her grip.

 

“No. I want to know. Do you?” she asks again, and Charon heaves in a shallow breath, and then another, the difficulty only half from her grip. His chest is tight, aching, and he doesn't want to think about this, not so much, not the details, he _can't—_

 

_'Please. Not this. Please. Anything else. Please!'_

 

_'Aww. I've never heard you say please before. Cute. It's almost like you think you have a choice. But you don't, and you know it. So let's get this show on the road, shall we?'_

 

Elodie shakes him, bringing him back, and he chokes out, _“Yes."_

 

She releases him, and he reaches up with one hand to press the back of it over his eyes. “I tried. I _tried_ …”

 

“Yeah, you _tried._ How good of you. Hell...you're remembering right now, aren't you? Huh? Is that it? You're fuckin’ shaking. You think you have a right to act like _you're_ the one who was traumatized? Like _you're_ the one who got fucking—fuckin'  _violated?_ Huh? Hey! Answer me!”

 

Charon shrinks back, and Max holds his hand out, desperately. He's thankfully put the contract away, and Charon wants nothing more than to hear the order for them to leave, because he can't do this, he  _can't._  

 

“Please stop," Max says, quietly, "please. Please. We’re leaving, we’re gonna leave—”

 

Elodie grabs Charon's shoulders and slams him up against the shack wall with startling strength, and Charon cries out, crumpling at her feet. Max swears and rushes to kneel beside him, grasping at his arm as he wails again and rolls onto his side, groaning, fresh blood starting to seep through his shirt.

 

“You're fuckin’ _scum,_ you bastard,” she says, spitting on him, “and you know it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it back then, too. Killing you would be a fucking relief, and no. As much as I want to kill you...I want you to suffer more. I want you to fucking suffer and remember me for _eternity,_ and then rot in hell where you belong.”

 

She turns on her heel, starting back up to the door, and then takes out her gun again and points it at him. “You've got ten seconds to get him off my property before I start puttin’ holes in him.”

 

Max stares up at her, eyes wide, and would have never expected her to be so _frightening_. But she is. And he can't even  _blame_ her, with everything she'd been through, with everything Charon had  _done_ to her—no, no, what his _employer_ had done to her. It wasn't Charon. It wasn't. But he knows damn well how little that matters to her, and she's scaring the shit out of him, and they need to _go._ “No, no, no, please, we’re going! Charon, come on—” He starts pulling on Charon's hands, grabbing him under his arms and yanking. “Get up, get up, get up!”

 

Overwhelmed by the agony, by _everything,_ Charon only hears and responds to the order, moaning as he manages to drag himself up, doubled over.

 

“Okay, okay,” Max murmurs, grabbing Charon's shotgun and then wrapping Charon's arm around his shoulder, supporting him as much as he can. “We’re going!”

 

“I have good aim with this thing,” she says. “If I were you, I wouldn't stop until you can't see me anymore. And don't _ever_ come here again, you hear? Either of you. _Never."_

 

“I'm sorry!” Max says, tugging Charon forward, and Charon staggers, desperately trying to bring himself back, at least enough to walk.

 

"Yeah," Elodie says, leaning against the shack. "But you ain't got shit to apologize for. Him? Well, I heard his sorry, and he can choke on it.  _Get._ "

 

Max looks at her one last time and then quickly nods, half-dragging Charon down the steps and out towards the bridge. Charon's more aware as they cross it, as they pass where he'd almost caused Max's death, almost killed him like he has done to so many others. So much hurt, he's caused _so much pain—_

 

“We can follow the river,” Max says, grunting with the effort of Charon weighing down on his side. “Get you in it down stream—”

 

“I am fine,” Charon says, pulling his arm back to his side, then wrapping it around himself, forcing himself to walk.

 

“You're not, _Jesus_ , you're really bleeding—”

 

“I said...I am fine,” Charon insists. “We need to keep moving. We can make it to Megaton by nightfall.”

 

“Charon…”

 

Charon forges on ahead, falls into a pace too quick for his physical state, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is getting Max home, and safe. He can't think about anything else. He can't. He just can't. He's going to break, and he _can't_.

 

“Please, I'm sorry, wait—”

 

Charon ignores him,  _has_ to, hears him sniffling and then cursing at him and then humming as he doses himself with Med-X again.

 

“I love you, Cherry,” Max purrs after a little while, and Charon hears him nearly trip, falling back to keep a closer eye on him. The last thing they need is another failure from Charon prolonging their trip.

 

“Did you hear me? Huh? Charon, I love you.”

 

“You should not,” Charon says, quietly.

 

“Yeah...you're right,” Max murmurs. “Maybe I won't anymore.”

 

Charon ducks his head. He doesn't know why that _hurts,_ when he's the one who said it, when he's never been more truthful, more _right,_ and when an employer has never made a better choice.

 

Still.

 

He grabs his shotgun back and slings it over his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain he deserves, and walks silently by Max's side all the way back to Megaton.

 

**x**

 

_"Agh, that goddamn vault kid. He's gonna be the death of your beloved radio host here. Ol' Three Dog can't take much more of this. He's dead, and then he's not dead. He's gone, and then he's back. I have a goddamn headache, and yet, I'm damn relieved. Him and that ghoul of his are the only good this wasteland's got, and I been hearin' now that they're back together again. I need to learn that cat's name. I really do. Anybody got that info, let me know. He's been a part of this story for a while now and I know shit-all about him. Anyway, we're all glad ya ain't dead. Again. Or again again. How many times is it this time? Too many! You're killin' me here. I'm ready for some good ol' R and R, how about the rest of ya? Just wish the Enclave would agree. Stay safe, kiddies, and as always, this's been Three Dog, bringin' you the truth, no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	32. All Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE...
> 
> I'm so sorry guys. I'm going through...sigh, a lot! But soon, in less than a month and a half, I'm going to be moving in with my best friend in our own apartment! (And a non-toxic environment...) I think soon everything will be okay. So updates are just gonna be weird, but God, I still love this story more than anything. There's no lack of desire to write this story. It's still my therapy. I've just had little motivation to do anything. I think things will start to be okay again when I'm away, though. They have to be. 
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy! I love you guys so much...thank you. Thank you. This story is sometimes the only reason I keep going, and the support is everything. You don't even understand. Sorry to keep you waiting. :3
> 
> Warning for talk of (past) rape/non-con, something sort of like a (failed) suicide attempt, and hoohboy, a lot of alcohol.

They enter Megaton just as the last rays of sunlight are dying in the sky, and no one greets them. Stockholm opens the gate without a word, just after seeing them in the distance, and Max is honestly relieved. No Sheriff, no _anyone_ bothering him with any questions, demanding any answers, and he can slip his way through the darkness into his house. He can sleep...finally, he can sleep, safe, and when he runs out of Med-X this time, he has Charon to get him more.

 

Charon.

 

Max turns around. Charon had long since fallen back again, and he's only now closing the door behind them. He notices Max staring and immediately looks away, down, waiting.

 

“I'm going to bed,” Max says, although he knows he should be trying to talk, trying to say _something_ that will make Charon feel better. He's just too damn tired right now. Tomorrow. He'll do it tomorrow. “Upstairs. But I don't...I want...you shouldn't come up.”

 

Charon puts a hand out to the wall for support, exhaling slowly. “You said...you would permit me rest when we arrived.”

 

“No, no, I didn't mean—you can. You can sleep. But just...not up there. I don't want you there anymore. With me. Not right now, I mean. I don't...”

 

“Max…”

 

“No,” Max says. “I want to be alone. I need to be. Please.”

 

“Of course,” Charon murmurs. He knows it's likely that what Max means is he doesn't want _anyone_ in his bed, but he can't help but be overwhelmed with regret, with the thought of Max no longer wanting _him_ because of what he had been told.

 

Bad man. He's a bad man. He's a disgusting awful _creature_ who deserves nothing and _no one._

 

He shifts, uncomfortably, and says, “Max...about...her...I—”

 

“I'm so _tired,_ ” Max interrupts, rubbing his eyes. “Please. Tomorrow? I'm so... _sad._ So tired.”

 

 _Me, too._ He nods again. “As you wish.”

 

“That...there's that...and you were still just gonna...just _end_ me...and I'm just…”

 

“To _spare_ you!” Charon says, and even the energy it takes to raise his voice above a whisper is draining. “I...I would not have done it for _pleasure_. Do you think...I would have _enjoyed_ it?”  

 

“No!” Max whimpers, tearfully. “But—but you were gonna, and I trusted you, and I thought—I thought you _liked_ me, I thought you felt for me—”

 

Charon stumbles forward, dangerously weary, and struggles to put his words together coherently. “Max. _Please._ I do. I do... _feel_ for you. But...I warned you. I warned you, Max, I _did,_ that if my contract left your possession, I could not protect you anymore. I could not _feel_ for you anymore.”

 

Max puts a hand over his heart, or the contract, or both. “So...so you just...just can... shut off your feelings? Just like that?”

 

“I am well-practiced,” Charon says after a minute, and Max sniffles.

 

“Yeah? So am I, now.” He takes a deep breath. “You can sleep on the couch, or whatever, okay? Do what you want. But I need to be alone. Goodnight.”

 

Charon nods his understanding, although Max isn't looking anymore, and waits until he hears the door close before moving. His limbs heavy, he makes his way over to the couch and sits, but quickly finds there's no position that isn't agonizingly painful, and slowly stands up again. He needs...to heal, first. And _then_ he needs to sleep. The pain is far too much to deal with, _even if_ he knows he deserves it. He wants to sleep, to escape the only way he can, and he can't even do _that_ in this state.

 

Weakly, he drags himself to his feet and outside, stares down at the bomb, and then off to the side. He catches sight of the saloon in the distance and finds himself walking right past the radiation he needs with a new, far more important goal.

 

Gob. He _really, really_ misses Gob. He wants to see him. Is that...okay? Gob would want to see him too, right?

 

It’s much too late, but he knocks anyway, and almost immediately the door unlocks and jerks open.

 

Gob stares up at him, wide-eyed, and then starts to _cry,_ wrapping his arms around Charon and burying his face in his chest, and Charon would probably have been more than okay with it if it didn't _hurt_ so badly.

 

“Charon, _Charon,_ you're okay, you're _here,_ oh my—”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Charon whispers, eyes tightly squeezed shut, and Gob pulls back, looking him over.

 

“Wh-what's wrong? You're hurt...is Max—where is he?”

 

“His bed. He told me to do as I pleased.”

 

He gestures, awkwardly, and puts a hand on Gob’s shoulder, mostly to keep himself balanced. “So...may I?”

 

Gob still looks absolutely starved for the touch, his eyes sliding closed, tilting his head to press his cheek against the back of Charon's hand. “C-come in?” he finally stammers, blinking hard, and then grins. “Yes! Come in! Please!”  

 

Charon immediately sits down in the closest chair to the door, grimacing, and Gob shuts the door again, reaching to take Charon's hand and hold it back to his cheek.

 

“Oh, Charon...Charon, I missed you so much. Do you want something? Water? Food? Anything? Where—where are your shoes? Why are you dressed just in that? You must be freezing!”

 

Charon glances around, almost nervously. “I am...bothering you?”

 

“What? No! No, not at all! I missed you, God, I _missed_ you…please. You could never bother me, not ever. Tell me what you need. A blanket? Something warm to drink?”

 

Leaning forward a little, towards Gob, without really realizing it, Charon mumbles, “I am...very, very hungry.”

 

Gob squeezes his hand and nods. “Okay. Okay, let me fix you something. Okay?”

 

Charon realizes he's gripping onto Gob’s hand too tightly for him to move away, and he quickly releases him, leaning back and then hissing in pain as his wounds contact the chair. “Ah...yes. It would...be much appreciated. Thank you.”

 

Gob looks him over, bites his lip, and nods. “Okay.”

 

Charon watches him go, notices he looks...healthier. Happier. He's not so terribly thin anymore, and no longer covered in various sickening shades of bruising. In fact the only place he seems to be injured is a healing split on his lip, a small mark on his chin, but...Moriarty is dead. How had he gotten that?

 

“Who hit you?” he asks, and Gob flinches, shifts around as he turns the stove on to heat up some soup made earlier in the day.

 

“Nobody. I...ran into something.”

 

“What?”

 

“A door,” Gob says, after hesitating just a second too long, and Charon clenches his fists. His first thought is Jericho, his second any drunk settler that could have passed through, but he will _kill_ whoever it was.

 

“ _Who?_ ”

 

“People aren't used to not being able to,” Gob murmurs, shakily, and Charon is acutely aware he's made Gob _extremely_ uncomfortable, but he doesn't understand _why_. “I've gotten shoved around. Nova’s had to...to kick ‘em out, because I get scared, and...and I freeze up...and I cry. I can't…” He shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck. “It wasn't nobody. Please, just...just leave it alone. It was a long time ago.”

 

Clearly not long enough, if he can still see it, but Charon listens, and doesn't ask again. He's here, now. If he sees anybody try it again, they won't live to make the same mistake.

 

“How is Nova?” he asks, to change the subject, and Gob's face softens, his eyelids drooping as a little smile spreads across his lips.

 

“She’s better,” he says. “Really. Mostly off the chems completely. She just slips up sometimes. Like today...but she's okay. She just sleeps it off and we start again.”

 

He does some sort of odd shuffling movement with his feet, and his smile grows, and he whispers, “I think we might be... _together_ , now.” He giggles, and flushes, and then turns to Charon, suddenly serious.

 

“I-I'm sorry, that was—I shouldn't have—”

 

"That is good, Gob," Charon says, because it  _is,_ isn't it? Of course it is. Gob deserves to be happy. So why is he... _cold_ inside? Colder than usual?

 

No, not so much cold, as...empty, maybe. But then...that's nothing new.

 

“I, uh,” Gob starts, and then goes quiet, pouring the soup into two bowls and returning to Charon's side.

 

Charon breathes out a thanks and grabs one, downing it in hardly a minute, and starts on the second, only pausing when Gob sets a med kit down on the table.

 

“How bad is it?” he asks, and Charon wearily blinks up at him.

 

“...What?”

 

“I'm not blind, you know,” he says, opening the kit and taking out a bottle of irradiated water. “Your back. How bad is it? Is all that blood yours?”

 

Charon tenses, uncertain, and swallows hard.

 

“Can I see?”  

 

Charon doesn't respond, but he shrinks away from Gob's outstretched hand, and Gob pulls it back to his chest, biting his lip.

 

“I want to help,” he says after a minute, and when Charon still hesitates he adds, “Please? You know you can trust me. You have to know. I just want to help.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Charon eyes the water. It would feel so, _so_ good over his wounds...maybe even get them to finally close. He sets his jaw, carefully looking over Gob’s face, and then gives a single, curt nod, reaching up and slowly, slowly pulling his shirt off. As he does, the already strained fabric rips, and he sighs heavily, dropping it to the floor. Wonderful. Now he doesn't even have a _shirt._ He might have something back at the house...but he should have thought about that before. He can't possibly go back now, not like this, and not with the risk of waking Max up. Idiot.

 

“Oh _Christ_ , Charon,” Gob whispers as he rounds the chair, putting a hand up to his mouth, and Charon winces, gripping onto the edge of the table with both hands. Disgusting, he's _disgusting,_ he's sickening to look at, scarred and ugly and monstrous and—

 

“Jesus...oh, _Charon..._ oh, Charon. Okay. Okay. It’s okay. Come. You have to lay down. Or—or would a bath be better?”

 

“A...bath?” Charon asks, frowning. It's something that's never been _offered_ before, only ordered, and never for his own benefit.

 

“Yeah,” Gob says, “is that—is that what you want?”

 

...Is it? Does he want that?

 

“It will be cold,” he murmurs, finishing the second bowl, and Gob shakes his head.

 

“The water's stored outside, so it'll still be pretty warm, even now! Nova can't stay in very long, but oh...it feels really nice for me. For you, too.”

 

“Nice,” Charon repeats, biting his lip. Should he let himself do that? It would heal him...and he would be _warm..._ he's so cold. He's always so damn cold. “And...warm?”

 

Gob smiles. “Yeah. Come on. It's okay.”

 

“I am...uncertain if I can make it up the stairs,” he says, hoarsely, and Gob gestures to his shoulder and reaches out.

 

“I'll help you. Please? Let me do this for you. I want you to feel better.”  

 

After another minute of thought Charon finally nods, grimacing. It would be foolish to refuse, as much as he doesn't deserve it.

 

“I have the best medicine, too,” Gob says. He grabs a bottle of wine off the counter and pushes it into Charon's grip, and then gestures for him to get up.

 

“Here, put your arm over my shoulders.”

 

Charon slowly stands, draping his arm over Gob, and stifles a groan, leaning against him. Gob sucks in a breath, like maybe he's startled, and then smiles at him, taking his wrist and rubbing his thumb over the thinning skin there.

 

No, Gob isn't startled, he's _delighted_. Why? Simply to touch Charon? To be close to him? He still can't understand why anyone would want that...and he has _two_ people who do now.

 

“I missed you,” Gob murmurs again, and Charon hums softly in response. He has the strangest urge to get closer, to nuzzle his face against Gob’s hair, or his shoulder, but he refrains, somehow.

 

_I missed you, too._

 

**x**

 

Gob fills the tub with a long tube that leads out a hole in the wall and then leaves Charon alone, only returning with a brief knock on the door to drop some clothes right inside. Charon has already undressed and sank into the radiated warmth, and he tucks his knees up to his chest even though Gob has his eyes squeezed shut. Privacy he never even had to _ask_ for...

 

“We have a whole pile of stuff people’ve left behind after staying here,” he says. “I don't know if those’ll fit perfect, but...they were the biggest I could find. I’ll go to Moira tomorrow! Unless you...d'ya have more at home?”

 

“I do not know,” Charon says, looking down at the water and dragging his fingers along the surface. “I know that I do not want to bother my employer.”

 

“Yeah…” Gob mumbles, absentmindedly rubbing a finger along his chin, along the _bruise_ there. “Might be for the best.”

 

“Gob…” Charon says, moving to grip onto the side of the tub. “No. Was it...was it _Max?_ ”

 

Gob's eyes open wide, and Charon shrinks down in the split second it takes for Gob to close them again and clap his hands over his face.

 

“No,” Gob says, about as unconvincingly as possible, “it wasn't...it was _my_ fault, um...I have to…” And then he shuts the door, too loudly, and Charon is left alone, staring.

 

He takes a shaky breath. _Max_ had hit Gob? He had hit Charon, too. He'd left a mark on both of them from his _anger,_ and Charon's breathing becomes slightly labored.

 

It was happening. He'd known it would, always known it would from the damn beginning, and after everything he's been through, after promising himself he would _never_ fall for that lulling kind act, that _bullshit,_ again, he fucking _did._ He allowed himself to relax, to _feel,_ and now? What would be next? Was Max going to start punishing him now? Shoving him around inside the confines of his contract’s limits just as everyone else has? Max was getting high. His third employer had been _high_ when she decided to be the first to _ruin_ him. Most employees had been high when they injured him enough the contract voided. That man, _him,_ that awful fucking man, had stunk of Jet more often than not, his breath hot over Charon's face and neck and ears, _suffocating_ him—

 

_‘So good for me, sweetheart, always so good—’_

 

He slams his open palms into what remains of his ears, _hard,_ and grimaces, but the pain distracts. The pain always distracts. It replaces the man's voice with ringing, and he scratches the dirt and grime from his body, scratches until there's a tinge of blood in the water and his ears have stopped ringing and he can _hear_ him again and—

 

He smacks his ears again and then dunks his head under the water, tugging at his hair more than washing at it, and then he frowns, quickly sitting back up.

 

It's so... _quiet_ , under there. He couldn't hear anything, any voice, just the rush of blood in his eardrums.

 

Did it silence everything? His thoughts? His mind? His _insanity?_

 

He covers his nostrils with a hand to prevent water from getting into them, and then sinks down to lay on his back, kicking his legs up and out over the sides of the tub.

 

Nothing. _Nothing._ The water tickles his ears, and he feels his hair floating against his skull, still feels the wounds on his back and chest so slowly stitching together, but he isn't thinking anymore. He isn't hearing, or _remembering_ anymore. His mind is almost blank, _almost,_ and he feels… _peaceful._

 

Maybe he should just...stay here. And eventually he won't ever have to think about anything ever again.

 

Not about who he's hurt. Not about who he _will_ hurt. Not about Max no longer loving him, kicking him out, or worse.

 

His lungs burn, and he grips the faucet, forces himself to stay down. _No._ It's quiet here. He's so tired...God, he's never felt so _exhausted..._ does it really matter anymore?

 

 _Protect_ , his contract demands, and Charon closes his eyes, squeezes them shut. Max will surely be selling him soon or voiding the contract by hitting him again, anyway, and getting rid of the only good he's ever known. He won't be protecting good (or _decent,_ or _okay,_ or even _manageable)_ anymore. He’ll be protecting evil, like always before.

 

They'll hurt him. They'll make him hurt others. If Max kept him, like this... _Max_ could hurt him. Max _has_ hurt him. What _else_ could he do? Would it go further than just a punch? Would he upset Max so much one day that it would end in an attempt to beat him bloody or _kill_ him? What if he can't stop it? What if—

 

No. No, no more. Charon can't do it anymore, he _can't,_ he can't fucking do it anymore. Two hundred years is _enough._ It's too much. It's more than he ever wanted. He doesn't want to do this anymore. He _can't_ do this anymore. He can't die, he's _never_ going to die, if he could _just fucking die_ —

 

He chokes down a mouthful of dirty water, hands scrabbling at the faucet, _please just let me—_

 

And then hands grab both of his and yank him up, and he gasps, slumping as he's dragged out of the tub completely and onto the floor.

 

“What the _fuck,_ Charon?” Gob shouts, and drops a towel over Charon as he weakly props himself up and continues to cough and spit, face tilted down to the floor.

 

“What the hell was that? What were you—what the fuck, Charon?”

 

Charon finds himself chuckling lowly in response, humorlessly, as Gob sags back against the wall, clutching his chest like he's having trouble breathing.

 

“I came to bring you a towel,” he says, gesturing weakly. “I knocked and you didn't answer and you—were you trying to fucking _drown_ yourself? You—you goddamn moron!”

 

“No,” Charon says, and Gob reaches in to unplug the drain.

 

“Don't lie to me, Charon,” he growls, furious, and Charon only chuckles again, feels the vague burning of tears in his eyes.

 

“You were. You were! How could you?”

 

“It never would have let me,” he says. “It never has.”

 

“Your contract? Or your _decency?_ What kind of fuckin’ joke would that have been, huh? You come back, and I beg you not to go again for the fiftieth fuckin' time, and I try to make you feel better, and—”

 

He cuts off, choking on tears, and then shakes his head, storming out and slamming the door behind him.

 

Charon flinches from the noise and stays where he is for a minute, silent, before slowly getting to his feet. He dries himself off with the towel, dresses in the clothes Gob brought, and then opens the door, squinting in the darkness.

 

He can hear Gob’s stifled sobs from the next  room, and he feels his way there with a hand on the wall and knocks gently, just once.

 

The crying stops, turns into sniffles, and the mattress inside squeaks. “Y-yeah. I'm...yeah.”

 

Charon pushes the door open, looking at Gob as he sits up in his bed, rubbing his eyes.

 

“I am sorry,” Charon says after a long silence, regretfully, and Gob sniffles again, shrugging one shoulder. When he says nothing, Charon comes closer, and Gob scoots over to allow space for Charon to take a seat.

 

Hesitantly, Charon does. The bed is so, so soft under him, and his eyelids droop at the allure of sleep, but after what he's done...tonight and every past one...he doesn't deserve a bed. He doesn't even deserve the floor, or dirt. He deserves _nothing._

 

“I said _don't_ leave me,” Gob mumbles, looking at the floor, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. “Don't leave me. I need you. I _need_ you. You can't do that to me, you _can't._ What were you _thinking?_ ”

 

“I was not,” he admits, and exhales a long breath. “I felt...I am uncertain. I apologize.”

 

“You just...you... _why?_ I-I mean...I know why, I think, but...but Max. It’s...it’s better now, isn't it? Better than before?”

 

Charon doesn't respond. Instead he rolls his shoulders, testing just how healed he is, and it doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as it did. It's more of an bad ache now than anything, and, well, he's got a lot of those. No different than usual.

 

“Can I see?” Gob asks, and Charon nods, and although he can't help but flinch at the touch, he allows Gob to roll the shirt up and inspect his back.

 

“Thank God, yeah...that...that looks a lot better. How does it feel?”

 

“Better,” Charon says, tugging the shirt down again. It's still a little small, but it's better, too. He hesitates, and then adds, “Things were better.”

 

Gob frowns, turning to face him and wrapping an arm around one knee. “...Were?”

 

Charon notices the bottle of wine on the table beside the bed, and his fingers twitch. Max had said…to do what he wanted. There is no danger, no need to protect here. Max is safe. He is unneeded. He hasn't had a drink in so _long_ …but right now he thinks he needs it more than ever. Can he? _Should_ he?

 

“Yes,” he replies, finally pursing his lips. “And then I destroyed all good, as I am made to do.”  

 

“He said…”

 

“After we were captured," he begins, "...after they gained possession of my contract...there was a chance for him to escape. I had to make him leave. I could not let him stay, but...but he did not want to leave, and if he did not, I…I had only one other option.”

 

“Jesus,” Gob says, “you...I thought you were trying to make him go. I didn't—you would have done it?”

 

At that Charon finally makes the decision to reach out to the bottle, gulping some down. His face twists into a disgusted scowl, but he's never been one to drink for the taste of it.

 

“I would not have let him be hurt by them anymore,” he says, clearing his throat. “Not the way...we have been.”

 

“Huh?” Gob looks suddenly panicked. “What?”

 

Charon stares at him, frowning. “Being _sold,_ Gob. It would...it would have changed him. It would have _destroyed_ him. And after? To be...property? To be at the mercy of someone who has none to give? It…it would have hurt him in ways he could not recover from. I would never have let that happen.”

 

Gob shifts around, tugs at his shirt like it's somehow gotten smaller. “Y-yeah, I...” he says, and his eyes have fixed somewhere off to the left. When he doesn't continue, when he _shivers,_ Charon reaches out to lay a hand on his arm, and Gob flinches violently, more so than he ever has at Charon's touch before, and recoils entirely, leans back against the wall.

 

Charon pulls away, too, straightening up, and Gob shakily breathes in.

 

“Sorry,” be says after a moment. “Don't wanna be, uh...don't feel good right now.”

 

“Have I done something?” Charon asks, and Gob shakes his head.

 

“No! No. No, it's not you, Charon. It could never be you. I'm just…” He rubs his eyes and heaves a sigh. “I'm just tired.”

 

“It is more than that,” Charon says, trying to draw conclusions from Gob's body language alone, and then he ducks his head. “I...I have made you recall what you did not want to. I apologize.”

 

“What? No, there's nothing...I just...slavers. I'm not...they're, uh...not good. Yeah. Nothing's even...it was just…I, um…” And then he grabs for the wine bottle, takes a long few drinks. “Ha...I'm okay. Are...you? They didn't...they _whipped_ you. Is there...more? I mean...God, you were there a month...the things they did to me in a _day…_ a week...it was just a week, it was just a week…was so long ago, it’s okay…”

 

He trails off, mumbling under his breath to himself, and then he drinks a some more.

 

“I am alright,” Charon says. “You are alright.”

 

“No, I'm _not_ ,” Gob mutters, scoffing. “I'm not. You're not. We're never gonna be _alright_.”

 

Charon thinks for a moment, and then takes the wine back for himself. “Well,” he says, and, instead of continuing, takes another few drinks.

 

“They hurt me,” Gob says, his voice cracking, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “They beat me, but...Colin did it worse. He did it so goddamn much I don't even know how I'm still _breathing,_ so it's not even that. It's _not_ that. It's...fuck, Charon.” He swats at the air. “Forget it. Forget it.”

 

“I would listen if you spoke,” Charon says, and Gob shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling and wipes at his eyes.

 

“Don't think I can,” he says. “It's not somethin’ you'd wanna hear. You have enough to think about. It doesn't even matter, right? It happened so long ago...I don't know why I even still _care._ So much worse happened...it doesn't even matter.”

 

“I understand,” Charon says after a minute, because he does. “I know.”

 

It's not the right thing to say, though, because Gob stiffens and starts to breathe harder, and says, “No, you don't, you _don't_ know, I didn't say anything. You don't know. It was nothing. You don't—”

 

Charon reaches out, presses his palm against Gob's cheek, and Gob startles before whimpering and placing his hand over Charon's, his eyes sliding closed.

 

“Charon…” he whispers, too desperately.

 

"It was not nothing," Charon says.

 

"No. No. It has to be," Gob manages to hiccup, barely holding himself together. "It _has_ to be nothing, or I'll never be okay again, not ever."

 

And Charon doesn't know what possesses him, possibly more wine than he'd thought, but he asks, “What did Willow tell you?”

 

Frowning, wiping his eyes with his free hand, Gob finally looks at him. “Wh-what?”

 

Charon just watches him, waiting, and Gob clears his throat, trying to think. “A-about you? Um...about your contract...about h-how you were...conditioned.”  

 

“I was.” He purses his lips. “About my contract?”

 

“Yeah. That...when you fail...and then…”

 

“That it prohibits violence.”

 

“Well...yeah..."

 

Charon shifts, and makes sure he really needs to continue before doing do. “Not...not _all_ violence.”

 

Gob goes really, really still, rigid, and then slowly drags his gaze up to meet Charon's. “...What?”

 

With a sigh, Charon reaches for the wine again.

 

“Charon,” Gob finally whispers, grabbing his hand. “What...what does that mean?”

 

"You are well aware of what I mean,” Charon says, “as I am of what you mean.”

 

Gob flinches, and moves away, and then quickly moves back, uncertain. “No, I never—I didn't say—” And then he stops, and realizes he hadn't needed to. “God, Charon, _no._ No, don't tell me that. Please. _Please._ I can't handle that.”

 

Charon looks down, gives some little shrug of one of his shoulders, and then Gob is crying again, curling up to his side.

 

“No. No, it wasn't even...they didn't even...” He shakes his head, “I'm  _fine._ I'm fine. I'm  _fine._ I'm...I shouldn't even...I don't think anyone e-even...she didn't even touch me! I don't...I don't think she...I don't know...I-I can't…I can't remember. I think I blocked it out. I don't think I _want_ to remember. I just...I remember _it._ She told me to...to show them if I still _worked,_ so they'd...know if th-they could... _sell_ me for...and she...she p-put a gun to my head, and I…and they all just _watched._ Just laughed and _stared._ I don't—” He curls tighter into himself and whimpers again, and Charon clumsily rests a hand on Gob's head, strokes his fingers through his hair. 

 

"It was not _nothing,_ " he says again, and Gob moans.

 

"I can't..."

 

"You do not have to," Charon says, and Gob cries harder, fisting his hands in Charon's shirt.

 

"God,  _Charon..._ no. I didn't know...I didn't know you...I...I woulda bought your contract, I woulda—"

 

Charon tenses, clenches his teeth. He had offered this information. He has to honor what has become of it, for Gob’s sake.

 

“No,” he says, and looks away. “Not him." His skin crawls, and he grimaces, too vividly remembers Ahzrukhal pinning him down on the floor and running his hands all over him and, God, Charon had really, _really_ thought—

 

"It was only used to threaten,” he continues, shaking himself. “By...by my employer...prior to him..." He shakes his head. "It was just...used. I...I was...used. I _am..._ used.”

 

“Charon…”

 

“There were others,” Charon says, shakily, and he finds he can't stop the words from drunkenly spilling forth, held back for so long. “There were others. It is not...it is not in my contract. But he...he was…he was worse. He was...he was…no. No, no, no.”

 

“Charon," Gob murmurs, taking his hands. “Stop. You don't have to...you don't have to..."

 

Charon grits his teeth, shaking his head. “He was  _the_ worst. I—I...still...twelve years. I was his...for twelve _years._ ”

 

“Jesus…” Gob murmurs, running a hand through his hair. “ _How?_ ”

 

“He never broke any rules. He never left any _marks._ Not until….” He cuts off with a choked groan, shakes his head again, and then chugs the rest of the wine down before Gob can stop him.

 

“Charon—”

 

“I failed him,” Charon coughs, and then resorts to covering his mouth with both hands because he _can't stop_ , and even that fails when he has to cover his eyes instead, trying not to remember, not to _cry._ “I failed him, let him catch a bullet meant for _me,_ and…and I may not have died but he  _killed_ me. I did not even get to kill  _him._ A scavenger did, in his sleep. He felt  _nothing._ And a day later, I was in Underworld. I...a-ah..." He wraps an arm around his stomach, grimacing, and takes a few deep breaths, swallowing hard. Gob rests a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently, and he coughs again, wiping his mouth. "This...but this is not about me. That...eh. I simply deserved it."

 

“What the _hell?_ Don't say that! Don't you ever say that! No! You didn't!”

 

“You have no idea what I have done, Gob,” Charon says, wearily looking up at him. “None at all. Everything he did to me...everything _all_ of them did to me...it is merely karma.”

 

“No. No, that's not how it works! What did I do, then, huh? I've never killed nobody! I didn't do _anything_ to deserve what Colin did to me, or them! I—” He cuts off, frowning, and then pales a little. “I don't think I did...did I? Is that...is that why? _Is_ that how it works? I don't remember—”

 

“ _No,_ ” Charon says, and this time when he reaches for Gob's hand he misses, grasping at the blanket instead. It's so _soft..._ Christ, he's tired. “Stop. You...you did nothing."

 

“Y-yeah? Well...then neither did you! Orders don't count. They aren't _choices._ You didn't have a choice!”

 

"I have killed without orders, too.”

 

“I damn well know you didn't for _pleasure._ ”

 

Charon scoffs. “You do not know me as well as you think, Gob. Just because I did not _enjoy_ it, does not mean I…” He trails off, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, and Gob leans into his view, tries to get his attention again.

 

“That's not..." he shifts, tilting his head. "That's not your fault, Charon. That...Charon...was it  _mine?"_

 

" _No._ "

 

He takes a breath. "Then...then how is it yours?"

 

“It hardly _matters,_ ” Charon sighs. “Whatever I did. Whatever was done to me. My fault or not. It all still happened. Those people are all still dead, or _worse,_ still alive. I...I met one of them, with Max. I thought she was long, long dead. I-I...I raped her. I killed her family, her brother, a _child._ "

 

“No. You didn't! They did. They made you!”

 

“Fine. They made me. It does not _matter._ My mind, my _body..._ they are not my own. They are property. They are for my next _master_ to take and twist to their liking. Max...Max is the first to have not, and...and he will be the last.”

 

“Charon…”

 

“It just...that is how it is.” He shrugs. “I do not know what I did _wrong,_ but it was _something._ I did something _terrible,_ I think, when I was human, and this is punishment. I do not know why...I cannot just _accept_ and _forget_. It is nothing. It was all nothing. It _had_ to have been _nothing,_ or I cannot—I cannot—”

 

"You just told me it  _wasn't_ nothing. Not mine, not yours. It's not...nothing."

 

He covers his face with a hand and sucks in a deep breath. “Then I cannot go on like this,” he says, his words slurring even closer together now, “and still I _must._ But I do not wish to anymore, Gob. It is all I think about. He, _they,_ are never not on my mind. I dream of them. Of _him._ Of innocents I have killed. Of my conditioning. Every night. Max…for awhile, I believe he helped. I...I feel for him. I thought that...but he must  _loathe_ me now, and...I am _frightened_ of what he will do next, and what I will have to endure like I always have. I...I simply cannot do this anymore. I do not wish to. I wish to sleep. I wish to die. I would like to die. Please, I just want…”

 

He closes his eyes, exhausted, and Gob's hand settles in his hair again.

 

“I know,” Gob says, quietly. “I...I don't feel it as bad, now, not since Colin died, but I _know._ I never wanted to wake up again, and I felt that every day. I'm so...so sorry, Charon. I didn't know. I didn't.”

 

“I am sorry,” Charon suddenly chokes out. “I am so _sorry._ I made this...about _me,_ but I do not matter. I hurt you. I hurt you. Gob...I hurt you...when you were the only one who had _ever_ been kind to me...and now I have hurt Max. You should never have pulled me out. You should have…you should have…”

 

He rubs at his temples, his head aching, and then Gob leans forward and kisses his forehead. He startles, eyes wide as he stares back, and Gob takes both of his hands.

 

“You,” Gob says, “deserved _none_ of what’s been done to you. Do you hear me, Charon? I won't let you say it again. I won't. You can't. It wasn't karma. None of it was _karma._ It was torture, it was abuse you never should have had to deal with. Your contract shouldn't even _exist._ You do matter, and you deserve to be happy, Charon. Even with what you've been _forced_ to do. I...I deserve to be happy, don't I?”

 

“Of course,” Charon whispers, and Gob smiles shakily.

 

“Okay. I...I didn't...I didn't deserve it. I _didn't."_ He clears his throat. "And you trust me?”

 

“ _Yes._ ”

 

“Well I'm telling you, you deserved better. You did. We...we both did. It just...didn't work out that way.” He shifts, a sad little smile inching onto his lips, and squeezes Charon's hands. “Sometimes things just...don't work out the way we think they should...right?”

 

Charon is having a difficult time even keeping his eyes open, and he sags against Gob, burying his face in Gob's shoulder. So warm…

 

“Jeez...you wanna lay down?”

 

“Tired,” Charon murmurs, and topples down onto his side, dragging Gob with him despite Gob’s yelp of surprise. “Please. Stay. Close?”

 

“You... _want_ me to be close?”

 

Charon nods, closing his eyes, and pushes himself as close as he can.

 

“Oh, jeez,” Gob murmurs, tensing, and Charon looks up at him, frowning. Wait. No. This isn't...this shouldn't be...

 

“I am...sorry…should go…” He starts to sit up again, and Gob wraps an arm around him and pulls him back down.

 

“Don't be sorry,” Gob says, breath tickling across Charon's face. “I've wanted to be like this, with you, for twenty years.”

 

Charon stares at him, startled. “You...what?”

 

“I _love_ you, Charon,” he says. “I think...I think I always have. You're so...God, Charon. You mean so much to me. You mean...you mean _everything_ to me. I never want to lose you. Not again. I want...I wish…I wish…I…”

 

“ _Love?_ ” Charon echoes, his eyes still huge, and Gob squirms.

 

“Uh...yeah? I mean, uh, no, I shouldn't have said that...uh...I'm drunk, ha! I'm drunk, everything is—I'm not—I should let you sleep, uh—”

 

He starts to get up, and Charon reaches up with both arms, wraps them around him, and brings him down again.

 

Gob squeaks, and Charon realizes too late he’s leaned forward, so close, they’re too fucking close, their lips are almost brushing, _stop, you can’t,_ _don’t—_

 

“Ch-Ch…Charon?” Gob whispers, completely still, and Charon isn’t sure either of them are breathing anymore.

 

“I…”

 

“ _Charon._ ” His name is said so strangely, not a question, not a warning, not an order. Gob sounds…desperate, longing, and...he can’t...he can't _want_ Charon to…can he?

 

“Gob,” he says, and leans impossibly closer, Gob’s panting warm against his face. “I…”

 

Gob reaches up, cups Charon’s cheek, and Charon sucks in a breath, and then closes the rest of the space between them, gently pressing their lips together. His whole body shivers, and his head starts to throb again, and he scrunches Gob’s hair in his fingers.

 

“Oh,” Gob says, pulling back, and he’s started _trembling._ “That…that… _Charon…"_

 

Charon wraps an arm around Gob and pulls him back, kisses him again, and Gob sighs softly, contently, into his mouth, his eyes sliding closed. He doesn’t touch Charon aside from the hand on his cheek, and Charon wishes he _would,_ wishes he would shove them apart and stop this because apparently Charon has no goddamn problem _destroying_ everything he and Max had—

 

“Oh, God,” Gob says, suddenly yanking away and clapping a hand over his mouth. “No. No, no. No. No.”

 

Charon looks up at him, eyes only half-lidded. “No...bad. I should...should have asked, I...I hurt you…”

 

“That didn’t _hurt,_ Charon,” Gob says. “No. That was...God. _God._ That was...that was... _no._ That was all I've ever wanted.”

 

“You...wanted?” Charon says, and then leans forward, tries to kiss him again. “Gob. Gob. I…”

 

“I—” Gob starts, and then cuts off and kisses him anyways, squeezes his eyes shut and _whimpers._ “Charon…oh, my love…”

 

 _My love._ Charon definitely feels his face turn hot this time, and he grasps Gob's shirt. “Gob... _Gobbie…"_

 

“Oh, God,” Gob says, and rubs his eyes, chuckling. “You're _wasted._ I'm so sorry. That was a terrible idea.”

 

“I feel just fine," Charon says, leaning again, and Gob tilts his head just enough that Charon can't reach to kiss him in the position he's lying in.

 

“No,” he says. “We can't. This...we can't.”

 

Charon slumps, letting out a knowing, almost defeated sigh. "Because…I am...used.”

 

“What? God, Charon, _no!_ Because we're drunk! _You're_ drunk. _God,_ you're drunk. You can't even open your eyes.”

 

That would absolutely explain why Charon suddenly can't see. He cracks them open, just enough, and Gob cups his cheek again.

 

“I love you. You're not used. You're not dirty. You..." He chokes a little, nervously glancing around. "You don't think _I_ am, right?”

 

“No! No, Gob, no...no.”

 

Gob relaxes, just noticeably enough that Charon knows he's endlessly relieved to hear it. “Okay. Then you can't be either. I...I won't let you think that. It's not that. It's...this. It's the wine. We can't.”

  
  
Charon takes a moment to let the information in. He is wanted, he _is,_ but not right now. Not like this. "Are you not...tired of waiting?"

  
  
"Charon...no. I'd wait forever for you," Gob murmurs, cupping Charon's cheek, and Charon looks at him with such complete and utter confusion that Gob's smile falters.

  
  
“I love you," he repeats. "I want you, but not drunk. Not sad. This isn't...this could never be a yes, and I...I would _never_ do anything with you without one. If you wanted...in the morning...but I doubt you're even gonna remember this. You're not thinking. There's...it's been a long night already. You feel for _Max._ But it's okay. I still wouldn't...and Max wouldn't...take advantage of you like that. Know that, okay? We'll help him...we'll fix this, okay?"

 

“I...I am...uh...mm...Gob,” he finally manages, and then drops his head down to the pillow with a sigh. So tired...so _comfortable._ “Cannot...must…uh…”

 

“Sleep,” Gob says, petting his hair and giving his cheek a kiss. “You're safe. Okay?”

 

“Safe…?"

 

“Yes. I love you. Everything is okay right now.” He wraps his arm around Charon, brings him closer, and nuzzles against him. “Just sleep. It's alright.”

 

It is. It is all right. Everything is right, for now. For just long enough.

 

His face pressed into Gob's chest, listening to his breathing, Charon falls asleep.

 

**x**

 

 _"Hey there, kiddies. Ol' Three-Dog here again, and uh...well, I can't say there's much new goin' on, but...the Brotherhood is still desperate for Mr. 101's help. If you're listenin', kid...you're needed. You and that ghoul of yours—Charon, is it?—are really, really needed. The Enclave ain't slowin' those nasty plans of theirs, and...well, I won't say it over here, in case...someone's listenin' in. Let's just say they got the means, the plan, but they ain't got the_ you. _And you, you_  both, _are just_ _about the only ones who can pull it off. So if you're hearin' this...well. You know what to do. As for the rest of us...we'll just be waitin'. Until next time, kiddies, this is Three-Dog, bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


	33. Somehow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed these boys so much! Thanks everyone so far for sticking with me! Life is...really...well, it's really something right now. Chapter song up on the fic's tumblr, andneverlookback! Hoping to eventually get back into art, but...one step at a time. Enjoy :']
> 
> WARNINGS: vague mention of (past) rape/non-con, drug use, mentions of (past) abuse.

Gob sleeps more soundly than he thinks he ever has, and it has nothing to do with the wine. He drifts awake a few times during the night, stumbles to the bathroom once or twice, and each time he opens his eyes Charon is _still there_ , curled against him, in his arms.

 

They're so _close._ They're...together. He doesn't think he's ever wanted anything more, not for years, _decades._ Christ...has it really been that long? 15 years apart and he still feels the exact same way. He'd missed Charon so much...he'd thought for sure they would never see each other again, that Ahzrukhal would have run him right into the ground with all those errands, or gotten him killed one way or another, and that would have been the most devastating part of it all. Especially since Charon had been blaming himself for it all this whole time…he would have never known the truth, how Gob  _really_ felt, or how it felt to be free of Ahzrukhal at all...

 

He remembers that day. He remembers Charon approaching with what Gob could have sworn were tears in his eyes and grabbing his wrist, pulling him into a side room and pushing him against the wall.

 

Gob had vaguely hoped something _very_ different was going to happen until Charon threw a punch to his jaw that blurred his vision and knocked him to the floor where he lay, stunned and gasping for air.

 

Charon had staggered back, clutched at his head, and groaned, an awful, pained, fearful sound that had chilled Gob to his bones before Charon lost whatever little control he'd held over himself and dropped to his knees over Gob, landing blow after blow onto him.

 

He remembers crying, he remembers tasting blood and tears and being sure some of them were Charon's as Charon panted and grunted and _whimpered_ a few times.

 

“Stop! Please! Charon! Charon, please!  _Please!"_

 

“I cannot!” Charon choked finally, desperation visible in the same eyes that hardly ever showed a thing at all. “I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry!”

 

And he'd known immediately it wasn't really Charon doing this, not his fault at all. An order from Ahzrukhal to...hurt him? _Kill_ him?

 

He tried to roll away, choking on his own blood and unable to catch his breath, and Charon grabbed his hair, clutched at it almost gently for a moment.

 

“I am sorry, I am sorry!” Charon was mumbling again, or maybe he never stopped, and then he slammed Gob’s head against the floor, and Gob woke up days later in the clinic.

 

He'd been angry at first, sure. But never at Charon. He had seen Charon break the fingers or hands of thieves or drunks refusing to pay without flinching at Ahzrukhal’s demand, and he knew just by that, just by that lack of reaction, Charon had been forced to do worse. And the first time Moriarty had beat him within an inch of his life, he'd vaguely noted that, somehow, Charon had never hurt him with malice in his eyes, or his hands. His actions had been robotic. He hadn't wanted to. He'd _apologized._

 

Moriarty did not apologize. When he was finished he was not upset. He had spat on Gob, wiped his hands on his pants, and left, muttering some last insult Gob hadn't really heard as consciousness finally, mercifully slipped away from him.

 

He'd thought about Charon a lot. He'd thought about what Charon might do to Moriarty, all the ways he would torture the sick man before slitting his throat, how he would _protect_ Gob, and then he would cry himself to sleep because Charon _wasn't_ there, he was _alone_ in his pain and death would be a goddamn relief.

 

Nova came three long weeks after Gob. She was strung out, carelessly thrown on Gob’s mattress with one wrist cuffed to the bed frame. When Gob sat beside her, checking her pulse to see if she was even alive, she’d giggled and called him Charlie, asked if they were there yet before falling back asleep.

 

She'd been tricked, Gob later found out, by a man who’d pretended to love her and then sold her to Moriarty at the first chance, a man he owed much less than a life.

 

“A debt,” Nova had cried, “he says I have to pay off a debt. That I gotta...earn my keep, whatever that means! I've never met the bastard! I don't owe him anything!” And she'd flung her hand out, and Gob had flinched so violently it shook the bed, covering his face.

 

“He hurts you, doesn't he?” Nova murmured quietly, and Gob nodded, slowly wrapping an arm around his waist with a wince. The way his clothes hung off of him gave away the weight he'd lost, and Nova's hand gently came up to push Gob's sleeve up, revealing dark bruising around his shoulder where it'd been yanked out of its socket (and then carelessly snapped back in) a week before. 

 

"God. God, l-lift...lift your shirt up." 

 

Gob looked at her, found his hands moving without his consent, pulling his shirt up to his chest, and Nova had to look away from the discoloration there, too. 

 

"That's..." Gob started, "Uh, a lot of that...I'm just...that's how I look, it's..."

 

"No it's not. The rest of you don't look like that. Jesus. He beats the shit out of you. Oh my God. I told him no, I told him I fucking wouldn't do what he wanted, Jesus,  _Jesus,_ he's gonna hurt me, I can't—”

 

Grabbing her hand, Gob shook his head and promised, “I won't let him. Okay? Just...try to do as he says...try not to make him mad..." As if that really worked for him...

 

“But I don't want to!” she said, shaking her head, but she didn't pull away, let him hold her soft, warm hand, and Gob had probably fallen for her right then. “I want to go home. I don't want to fuck strangers! I want to go home."

 

"I know, I know," Gob said, scooting closer, "I know. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't want you to be here, either. And...and I want to go home, too."

 

The last sentence had been spoken so quiet Nova almost hadn't heard, watching as Gob's face fell and how quickly he ran a hand underneath his nose and sniffled.

 

"Why...would you even _care?_ " Nova asked. "About...trying to protect me. We...we don't even know each other."

 

“Well,” Gob had said, and settled back, still holding her. “I'm Gob. I'm from Underworld. Did you ever hear about that place? Well..."

 

He'd told her everything, and listened as she'd done the same, sacrificed himself to Moriarty’s rage whenever he could and grown close enough to her that she'd let him hold her hand every night they could rest together.

 

They weren't happy, but sometimes they were okay, and Nova would sing Gob to sleep when he was injured, and Gob would tend to her wounds if she received them, and they survived. Somehow. Just like Charon had for God knew how long, being a slave just as they were, _worse._

 

Somehow, they all kept alive, and somehow, Charon was next to him again.

 

And now….God, they had _kissed_. He'd had fluttering feelings for Charon for _years_ back in Underworld, only growing stronger in the time they spent apart, the time he’d spent wishing he was back there, that he hadn’t pissed Ahzrukhal off and hurt the both of them, and _now..._

 

No. He shouldn't think about it.That was all in the past, and that kiss? No. That kiss wasn't _real._ It was Charon, drunken and out of his mind, and therefore he _can't_ think about it. If Charon hadn't drank so much...if _he_ hadn't drank so much...maybe…

 

He closes his eyes, shakes his head to get rid of the thought. Charon didn't _want_ him. Not like that.

 

But then, he had thought that about Nova, too, and yet…

 

 _Nova._ She had already told him she didn't mind that he also loved Charon, that he could love anyone he wanted so long as he kept loving her, but...loving someone was different from _kissing_ them, from cuddling them through the night and looking down at them and thinking about how _nice_ those lips had felt on his, how much he wants it again, wants _more_ than that, wants _everything_. And oh, God...what about Max? He already hates Gob. He seems to hate Charon at the moment, too, but there's no telling what his reaction would be if he found out about this— _when_ he finds out…

 

Would he hurt Gob again? It isn't like he doesn't deserve it, for coming between the two of them. Or...would he hurt Charon? No, no. He wouldn't, right?

 

He had, though. He'd punched them both. He'd made Charon  _trust_ him, and then hurt him.

 

Charon lets out the smallest, most helpless sound Gob has ever heard, wincing and curling closer, and Gob will _never_ let him be hurt again. He is going to keep him right here, in his arms, safe. Max can come _only_ if he's nice, if he promises never to upset Charon again.

 

Charon mumbles under his breath, shifting around, and Gob starts to pet his hair, shushing him gently.

 

“You're okay...Charon...hey…it’s okay. It’s—”

 

“ _Max,"_ Charon says, and Gob cringes. That's what he's dreaming about? Max? About not being able to save him, or about...being hurt by him?

 

Charon gasps and opens his eyes, and the fear in his face is physically painful as Gob looks down at him, offering a little smile and cupping his cheek.

 

Charon flinches, reaches up and roughly grabs Gob’s wrist, digging his nails in, and Gob yelps, trying to move away. “Sorry, Charon, it's me! I'm sorry!”

 

“Gob,” Charon says, blinking hard a few times and then loosening his grip. “I…”

 

Gob holds his hand to his chest, protectively, and sits up, looking away. “Sorry…” he mumbles, and Charon stares at him.

 

“ _I_ am sorry...are you hurt? Have I…” He trails off, lurching forward and holding his stomach. “I feel…unwell…I think…”

 

He puts the back of his hand over his mouth and scrambles up, stumbling his way out and to the bathroom, and Gob sits very quietly at the edge of the bed, arms loosely wrapped around himself.

 

They'll have to talk about it...about last night. Suddenly Gob wants to forget it happened.

 

Well...not quite.

 

He smiles, just a little, and then waits patiently, eventually making his way downstairs to get some water.

 

Nova smiles tiredly at him, sitting behind the bar counter with a cup of coffee between her hands, and Gob is delighted to see her up and about.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, leaning to peck her on the lips without thought, and she hums, gently cupping his head and nuzzling against his cheek.

 

“Better, Gobbie. I'm sorry.”

 

“Hey, it's okay,” Gob says, running a hand through her hair. “It happens. Doesn't get rid of all the progress. Just gotta start it up again, right?”

 

“Right,” Nova says, nodding, and raises her mug in a _cheers_ motion before drinking some more down. “Always right, my Gobbie.”

 

Gob kisses her forehead and then turns, fills two glasses and winces. “Um...Nova…”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Charon's here,” he manages after a minute, frowning.

 

“Oh?” she asks, suddenly seeming interested, and he nods.

 

“He...stayed here, last night. Uh...in...my room. We didn't—”

 

“Gobbie,” Nova giggles, wiggling her eyebrows. “In your _bed?_ ”

 

“No! Well, yes. Nothing really happened! So don't…”

 

“Don't...what? Don't worry? Gob, I _don't_ worry. You love him. You always have. Why would I ever take that from you?”

 

“I...I don't know why you _wouldn't,_ ” Gob says quietly. “It's...not right.”

 

“Not _right?”_ Nova asks, tilting her head. “How so?”

 

“I'm...I just…” Gob gestures a little helplessly, and Nova smiles, leans forward, and kisses him.

 

“Gob,” she says, very seriously. “I love you. And you love me, don't you?”

 

“Of course,” Gob replies hoarsely, closing his eyes. “So much, Nova.”

 

“And you love Charon.”

 

Gob hangs his head and then nods a little. Nova cups his chin, brings his eyes up to meet hers, and kisses his forehead.

 

“That's okay. You have a lot of love to give. We’re lucky you chose us.”

 

Gob feels his cheeks flush, and his eyes water, and he hugs Nova tight to his chest, kissing her head. “I love you. Really.”

 

“I know. And I love you.” She looks up as the bathroom door upstairs opens and Charon staggers out and back into the bedroom with a low groan.

 

“Looks like it was a long night,” she says, grinning, and gestures for him to go back up.

 

Gob sighs, grabbing water for Charon and slowly making his way to where Charon is leaning heavily against the wall, panting and unsteady and shaking as he tries to get back to the bed.

 

“Oh, Charon,” Gob murmurs, setting the glass on the bedside table and grabbing his arm. “Here, let me help.”

 

“Gob,” Charon breathes, wincing, finally collapsing onto the bed.

 

“Yeah? Are you okay?”

 

“I recall why I do not drink,” Charon manages, burying his face in the pillow. “It is... _terrible._ ”

 

“You had a lot,” Gob says, staying where he is, and Charon grunts in response. They're both quiet for a moment, and then Charon tilts his head back enough to glance at him.

 

“Did I...hurt you?”

 

“What? Oh. No, no.” He rolls his wrist, shakes his head. “It's just...still sore, is all. Not from you.”

 

“Not directly,” Charon mutters, and then, before Gob can react: “How late is it?”

 

“Early still,” Gob sighs. “Before noon.”

 

“I should...go.”

 

Almost instantly, Gob reaches out and takes Charon's hand in his own, holds it tightly and flushes at the tiny, startled gasp Charon gives.

 

“You...you don't have to,” Gob says, shyly, and Charon moves a bit more onto his side to look at Gob properly, his face showing confusion before the sudden recollection.

 

“I kissed you,” Charon says, softly, and Gob feels his stomach flutter.

 

“You did.”

 

“I am...sorry, I…”

 

“Don't be. I know you didn't mean it. It's okay.”

 

Charon's gaze slides down to Gob’s mouth, lingers there too long, and Gob’s chest gets so tight he almost can't breathe in.

 

“It's okay,” he manages again, barely choking it out as he offers a smile, and Charon clears his throat, looks away.

 

“Max,” is what he finally says, and Gob lowers his head.

 

“I know.”

 

“I...I cannot…”

 

“I _know_. It's okay. It was just the—”

 

“But I want to.”

 

Gob freezes, stiffens, and stares over at Charon as Charon turns away again, as if he's _embarrassed._

 

“You...what? L-last night, you—?”

 

“Then. And now,” Charon says. “And before, as well. I just did not know until...it happened.”

 

Gob is left speechless, and he glances around to make sure there isn't another bottle of wine Charon had gotten into. “...What?”

 

Charon sighs and doesn't respond; he just squeezes Gob’s hand a little tighter, and Gob feels his heart jump again.

 

“I have said what I meant,” Charon finally murmurs, and then sits up. Gob shrinks, afraid to get too close, because he doesn't know if he will be able to stop himself from leaning in and—

 

“Oh, Charon…” he breathes, and something in the inflection of his name makes Charon shiver. Gob feels it, too close not to, and swears there’s something of a flush across Charon’s cheeks, and it lights something of a fire within him. Had he just... _flustered_ him? Oh, wow...

 

“I must go,” Charon says. “I need to check on my employer. I should not have left him alone this long.”

 

“Okay,” Gob says, awkwardly cupping the back of his neck, and then startles a bit as there's a few loud bangs on the front door of the saloon. “I guess...I guess I should go too.”

 

Charon's eyes go to his lips again, his teeth gritted tightly, and then he stands, unsteadily, and starts to make his way downstairs when—

 

“Gob!”

 

Charon jumps a foot and nearly falls at hearing Max shouting from downstairs, panicking and freezing completely as Max starts stomping up the stairs as Nova follows, worriedly.

 

“Gob, have you seen—”

 

He stops, eyes landing on Charon, who stays stiff and pressed against the wall as if hoping to not be seen, and Gob winces, taking a few steps to the side.

 

“You’re here,” Max says, very quietly, looking between them both with a too-calm expression. “I couldn't find you. You were here. Of course you were here. Good, good.” He nods, turns around, and goes down the stairs again.

 

“Max,” Charon calls, quickly following, but his employer doesn't acknowledge him at all. “Max, I—wait!”

 

Max still ignores him, doesn't stop until they're back at the house, and then he turns around and shoves Charon up against the door, slamming it shut with their weight. Charon could easily move away, but he doesn't; instead, he slowly says, “Physical violence invalidates the contract.”

 

The fury in Max’s eyes is unfazed. “You stayed with him last night,” he says, and Charon very slowly nods.

 

“Did you...did you... _cheat_ on me?”  

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

Max grabs at his shoulders and pushes him back a little harder, verging on painful, and Charon swallows hard.

 

“What are you asking me?”

 

“Did you _fuck him?”_ Max hisses, and Charon flinches, shaking his head.

 

“No. _No."_

 

“No…?” His voice softens just a bit, and it aches that he's just been _waiting_ for Charon to hurt him again. “Noth...nothing happened?”

 

Charon holds his breath, bites his lip, struggles to keep quiet, but he can't lie. Upon his silence, Max scowls and shakes him. “What happened? You did something! What did you do?”

 

“I...kissed him,” Charon manages, and Max releases him, stumbles back and whimpers softly.

 

“You _kissed,"_ he says at length, looking up at the ceiling.

 

"Max...Max, I was not sober, I—"

 

“I knew it," he interrupts, "I _knew_ it. Do you...do you _love_  him? God...you do, don't you? You kissed him! You cheated! You—you—" He grabs his hair and spits,"You fuckin’ _slut!”_

 

Charon flinches again, so violently his head smacks back against the door, and his eyes widen as the world tilts and blurs around him, as he sees shadows that aren't really there. “No—” he chokes out, “No, I am not—do not—I am not a—”

 

_‘Fuckin’ slut. Stop actin’ like you don't enjoy this, you always do—’_

 

_‘No! Never! Stop!’_

 

_‘Oh, no. You're mine, forever. Oh, are you going to cry? Good. You know how much I love that.’_

 

“Stop!” Charon yells, slapping away the hands he feels running down his body, _clawing_ at them, and only coming back to himself as his back hits the wall. His hip knocks something over, and there's the sound of glass breaking on the floor.

 

“No!"

 

He blinks hard, panting, and stares down at the broken syringes of Med-X at his feet, biting his lip. Oh, God. Oh, God. What has he done? A bolt of cold dread shoots up Charon's spine, and he can't help but think about what the last employer he'd accidentally broken the drug stash of had done to him. Oh, that hadn't been a good time at  _all,_ oh, no—

 

“It was a mistake,” he whispers, “please. Forgive me. Forgive me. It was a mistake. I-I did not mean to, _please._ I am sorry. I am sorry…”

 

Max's scowl has faded as he takes another step back, finally really looking Charon over. He's _shaking._ Charon is _scared._ Of what? Of...Max?

 

He reaches out, because no, that can't be right, Charon just needs to be brought out of another flashback, but the second Charon notices his hand coming he jerks back and then slides down the wall to sit, drawing his knees up to his chest and lowering his head, folding his arms over it. “I am sorry...I am sorry...I did not mean to...please. I am sorry. Stop. _Stop,_ please stop, _Max,_ please do not, I am sorry. _Please_.”

 

Max grabs onto the banister for support; Charon had said his name. He knows where he is. “Charon,” he says. “Are you...are you afraid of _me?_ ”

 

Charon doesn't respond; just shakes his head, keeps muttering apologies.

 

“Charon, I'm...I'm not…” He distances himself even more, confused. “I wouldn't hurt you, I...I'm just mad, I…”

 

“I am _sorry_ ,” Charon chokes out, and he sounds so close to tears, and Max feels a heavy weight rest down on his chest, makes it nearly impossible to breathe as he slumps to his knees.

 

Charon  _is_ afraid o f him. Charon thinks Max is going to _hurt_ him, to _violate_ him, to do any and everything employers have done before. He isn't in a flashback. He had _said Max’s name. God..._ what has he done…? Charon is afraid of him. Charon is afraid of him. He's made Charon  _afraid_ of him. He'd bought him off a man he promised he'd never become anything close to and now...he's been yelling, he  _hit_ Charon, he's insulted him, shoved him away, forced him to walk when he was injured, called him a slave to his face, humiliated him, cursed him for searching for comfort when Max would give him none. 

 

Charon is  _afraid_ of him, and Max suddenly doesn't fucking blame him.

 

“Charon…” he whimpers, reaching out for him.

 

The door opens, and Nova calls out his name, sounding _angry,_ approaching Charon and kneeling beside him. The second her hand touches down against Charon's shoulder he _yelps_ and shoves himself away, curling up even tighter. “Please, please,  _stop!_ " 

 

“God, Max, what did you _do?”_ Nova demands, and Max chokes, realizing _Nova_ had thought he would hurt Charon, too. 

 

“No, no, no, I didn't!” he cries. “I didn't hurt him, please, I didn't! Charon, please, _please, I'm sorry…_ ”

 

“Are you okay?” Nova murmurs, and Charon mutters something Max can't make out in response, but it doesn't matter. Charon _isn't_ okay, and neither is Gob, and neither is _he,_ and it's all his fucking fault—

 

He grabs at his hair, pulling, and then covers his head, starting to sob. “I didn't...please...I'm sorry, please. What've I done? What the fuck've I done? He's scared, he's scared! Nova, he's scared of me! Charon... _help me_ …”

 

“Oh, Max…” Nova says, placing a hand on his back and rubbing gently. “We’re going to help you, okay? We’ll help you.”

 

Max cries harder, nodding, and curls against her. “I need help. I need help. There's something wrong. There's something really, really wrong, and I don't...I don't know...Charon...I'm...please…"

 

“Hey,” she says, “it’s okay. He’s gonna be okay, and so are you.”

 

 

**x**

 

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but when Max opens his eyes he's back in his bed, tucked in tight. He groans softly, turning onto his back and rubbing his eyes, and then blinks to clear his vision.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

Max sniffles, looking up at Charon and shaking his head. “Why does it matter?"

 

“You are my employer. It is my job.”

 

Max rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. “Just your employer,” he mutters. “I thought we were...I thought we were... _together,_ but...but you don't want that anymore, do you?"

 

Charon sighs, and he sounds _exasperated._ “We were.”

 

“It's my fault," Max mumbles, shaking his head. "God, I knew it. I knew it. I knew it. We coulda been...and then...I'm sorry. I'm..."

 

Charon scoffs, pushes himself off the wall, and gives Max a glare as Max looks back up at him. “You are _weak,”_ he says, and Max flinches, tears welling up in his eyes.

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“You really believed I would ever love you?”

 

“No…” Max sits up, reaches out towards him. “No, no, you said! You said you wanted to try, you said—no, no, no, wait, Charon—”

 

“I could _never_ love someone as pathetic as _you,_ Max. No one could. No one _will_.”

 

“Stop!” Max reaches out further, falls straight to the floor and knocks the breath from himself.

 

“Pathetic,” Charon says, standing over him, and Max wails, starting to cry.

 

“No, no! Don’t say that to me! Don’t call me that! I’m not, I’m not! I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

 

“You sulk, and _cry,_ you turned away from the Brotherhood when they needed you, when the _Wasteland_ needed you, when _I_ needed you—”

 

“Shut up!” Max claws at the floor, shakes his head and wishes Charon would just kick his stupid head in. “Shut up, shut up, shut up! You’re the one who left me! You left me to die! You were gonna kill me!”

 

“Maybe the world would be better off if I had,” Charon growls, and then he grabs Max, and Max _screams._

 

“Whoa! Max! Max, Max! Hey! Open your eyes!”

 

Max flails his limbs, smacks something in the process, and then is held even tighter, his face pressing into something so warm and soft that he has to relax, his gasps evening out into something a bit calmer.

 

“Max.” It’s not Charon anymore. It’s...Nova. He’s in Nova’s arms, face against hers shoulder. He’s safe. Safe from the world and Charon’s awful remarks, and…

 

He looks around as his vision clears. They’re in the middle of his bedroom, the sheets of his bed tossed onto the floor, and they’re alone.

 

“Charon? Where…?”

 

“Honey,” Nova says, starting to pet his hair. “Charon’s been down at the bar with Gob all day.”

 

“No, he…” He looks around, squinting, puzzled. “He was here, he said…”

 

“No, he wasn’t. Not since we put you to bed. We thought it would be best to keep you apart, on account of...well. We’re trying to get you better. If you can tell him to do anything, we’re afraid you’ll just tell him to get you more Med-X.”

 

“Med-X,” Max murmurs, and rubs at his head, so goddamn _confused_. “I’m…”

 

“You’re going to have a _terrible_ week, Max,” Nova says, offering a sympathetic smile. “But you’re strong. You’ll get through it, okay? You’ll come out of it even stronger. And if we find some Addictol, you’ll be better even sooner than that. Alright? And trust me when I say we’re doing the best we can, harrassin’ every trader we come across. Promise.”

 

“U-uh...uh...no, I...I’m…” He tries and immediately fails to get up, and Nova picks him up in her arms, carrying him back over to his bed and laying him down.

 

“Nova, I...Charon? I want...I want Charon, please. Please let me see him.”

 

“Sssh,” Nova soothes, covering him up with the blankets again. “Ssh. You’re okay. You’re okay. I promise. He’s okay, and you can see him soon. Just sleep for now, okay? I'm gonna be right downstairs, I promise.”

 

Max wants to protest, but he’s just too damn tired, and he doesn’t remember hearing Nova close the door as she leaves.

 

**x**

 

“Hey,” Gob murmurs, and Charon raises his head, blearily looking up at him.

 

“You doin’ okay?”

 

“Of course,” Charon says, and then buries his face back into his arms as they rest on the bartop, definitely _not_ doing okay.

 

“Good to hear.” Gob sighs, refilling Charon’s glass of water, relieved he hasn’t asked for something stronger yet. “He's gonna be okay. _You're_ gonna be okay. This is good! This is...everything will be okay after this, yeah?” He hesitates, then reaches out to touch Charon’s head, gently, affectionately. “Okay?”

 

Charon stiffens, doesn’t otherwise react for a moment. So gentle with him...so gentle. So soft. So kind. Gob and Max, so...nice. So...loving. So important. The two most important things in his life, he decides, and nods as if to confirm it before pushing up into Gob’s hand, sighing softly.

 

But Max. Max will have to apologize for what he’s done. And...so will Charon. He will have to stay away from Gob, he can’t…

 

Gob moves his hand down a little, fingers gliding through Charon’s hair, and Charon doesn’t want to stay away from him. He _can’t._ Not anymore. Not ever again. He wants to go upstairs and lay with him just as he has with Max, sleep next to him and bury his face in Gob’s neck and be so _safe_ and—

 

“Char?” Gob breaks him from his thoughts, and he looks up, eyes only half-lidded.

 

Gob almost shivers from the way Charon looks at him. He clears his throat, removes his hand, and then flinches as there’s loud banging on the door, and a yell from a regular drunk about the bar being closed.

 

“Can we talk upstairs?” Gob asks, and Charon nods, very slowly. They need to talk. They really, really need to talk. About how this can’t happen, about how _nothing_ can happen...no matter what either of them want.

 

Halfway up the stairs, Charon doubles over, hissing in pain as he clutches at his head with one hand, grabbing onto the bannister for support with the other.

 

Gob is immediately at his side, an arm around his waist. “Hey, what’s wrong? What is it? Are you okay?”

 

Rubbing his temples, Charon squints at him. “My employer is...distressed,” he grunts quietly, shaking his head. “I should be with him. My contract _wants_ me to be with him. I need to protect him. I need to—agh—" He leans over further, panting. " _Fuck..._ "

 

"Jesus, are you okay?"

 

"Hurts...different," Charon manages, wincing, and grabs tighter onto the bannister. "Gob, I—"

 

Pain fires through his head, nothing like what he feels for not being with a distressed employer for too long, and immediately his knees give out. He crumples, letting out a groan as he holds both hands over his ears. Ringing, such loud, _painful_ ringing, God, everything is so _loud,_ it sounds like he’s inside a goddamn collapsing metro tunnel, like something is _scraping_ against the inside of his skull with a knife—

 

 _A scalpel._ It feels like—it’s not fucking _ringing,_ it sounds like a fucking _drill,_ and—

 

_‘His eyes are open. I-I think he’s still awake.’_

 

_‘Paralyzed, either way. Start the procedure, doctor.'_

 

_‘Sir—’_

 

_‘Now.’_

 

_‘Yes, sir.’_

 

Then whirring, then _pain,_ he’d never felt such pain, they were going to _kill him, help, please help, please!_

 

“Charon!”

 

Not his name, not there, not back then. He didn’t have a name, he had...had something else. He had...he had a _number._ He was nothing but a number, he was a _number, he was nothing, worthless, created to obey, a slave, a slave, a slave, he was—_

 

 _“Please,”_ he hears himself mumbling, and there’s arms wrapped around him that he can feel now as his senses slowly, slowly return.

 

“I know, I know. Ssh. You’re okay, you’re okay. Just breathe with me. Come on. Deep breath. Deep breath. Take a breath, Charon!”

 

Charon gasps air into his burning lungs, doesn’t know how long it’s been since he did, and it _hurts._

 

“That’s it! Good! Good, Charon, good. Now out. Breathe out. Just like that. That’s right. Again. Breathe in.”

 

He breathes again, and again, until reality fades back in, until he remembers where he is, who these arms around him belong to.

 

“Gob,” he chokes out, and he hears Gob let out a whimper, feels Gob rub along his arms as if trying to warm him up or comfort him.

 

“God, yeah. Yeah, I’m here. I’m here. Are...are you?”

 

Charon blinks hard a few times, tries to make sure he is before he answers with a weak nod.

 

“That was so scary,” Gob says, “You were shaking so bad, I—I didn’t know if you were _dying_ or fucking _what_ but—Jesus! Don’t do that!”

 

“I was awake,” Charon says, softly, and Gob looks at him in confusion.

 

"What? Just now?”

 

Charon takes a quivering breath, and lets it out. “No. Then.”

 

“Then?”

 

“I am so _tired_ , Gob,” Charon says, and then sags forward against him. “I wish to sleep, please. Please.”

 

“Okay, okay," Gob says, attempting to keep his voice low and as soothing as he can, still on edge and fearful of Charon spinning off into another one of whatever the fuck  _that_ had been. "Yeah, let’s...let’s get you to bed. Been a long day, huh? Here, I’ll help you up.”

 

Leaning on Gob, Charon manages to stumble his way into the bedroom, lying down on the bed and grabbing onto Gob’s hand when he goes to leave.

 

“Stay,” he says.

 

“Are you...sure?”

 

“Stay,” he says again, and so Gob does.

 

**x**

 

_"Hey there, kiddies. Three Dog here again, of course. This ain't that other radio station, where that Mr. self-elected President is—pfffft—get this—he's askin' if anyone's got any info they want to give about the Purifier. Offerin' a reward or somethin'. I dunno. I couldn't hear over all the bullshit. My laughin', either. That was hard to hear over, too. God Almighty, are these guys for real? They think one'a ya'll is just gonna know how to help them take over the world? Good luck with that, guys. Hey, I guess everyone needs some help these days, huh? Can't blame 'em for tryin'. Keep your heads down when those Verti's fly in from the distance, keep keepin' alive, and I'm sure we'll get what we all need real soon. I mean, how long can a guy really go hide when the world needs him? Your move, 101. We still believe you're the one. You have been so far. Anyway, kiddos, this has been Three Dog, bringin' you the truth no matter how bad it hurts. And now, some music..."_


End file.
